


Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty

by dracoena



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth/Last Alliance, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, General, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Tear-jerker, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection, for now, none. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2007-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 214,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoena/pseuds/dracoena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history of the Downfall, from Ar-Sakalthôr´s accession to Ar-Pharazôn´s Armada. Long saga (rated Adult for possible later transgressions). NEW!! Amandil reaches Sor and is waylaid by a group of mysterious strangers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

 

_"O Tyre, you have said, I am perfect in beauty.'_  
Your borders are in the heart of the seas; your builders made perfect your beauty.  
They made all your planks of fir trees from Senir; they took a cedar from Lebanon to make a mast for you.  
Of oaks of Bashan they made your oars; they made your deck of pines from the coasts of Cyprus, inlaid with ivory.  
Of fine embroidered linen from Egypt was your sail, serving as your ensign; blue and purple from the coasts of Eli'shah was your awning.  
The inhabitants of Sidon and Arvad were your rowers; skilled men of Zemer were in you, they were your pilots.  
The elders of Gebal and her skilled men were in you, caulking your seams; all the ships of the sea with their mariners were in you, to barter for your wares. Persia and Lud and Put were in your army as your men of war; they hung the shield and helmet in you; they gave you splendor.  
The men of Arvad and Helech were upon your walls round about, and men of Gamad were in your towers; they hung their shields upon your walls round about; they made perfect your beauty.  
Tarshish trafficked with you because of your great wealth of every kind; silver, iron, tin, and lead they exchanged for your wares.  
Javan, Tubal, and Meshech traded with you; they exchanged the persons of men and vessels of bronze for your merchandise.  
Beth-togar'mah exchanged for your wares horses, war horses, and mules.  
The men of Rhodes traded with you; many coastlands were your own special markets, they brought you in payment ivory tusks and ebony.  
Edom trafficked with you because of your abundant goods; they exchanged for your wares emeralds, purple, embroidered work, fine linen, coral, and agate.  
Judah and the land of Israel traded with you; they exchanged for your merchandise wheat, olives and early figs, honey, oil, and balm.  
Damascus trafficked with you for your abundant goods, because of your great wealth of every kind; wine of Helbon, and white wool,  
and wine from Uzal they exchanged for your wares; wrought iron, cassia, and calamus were bartered for your merchandise.  
Dedan traded with you in saddlecloths for riding.  
Arabia and all the princes of Kedar were your favored dealers in lambs, rams, and goats; in these they trafficked with you.  
The traders of Sheba and Ra'amah traded with you; they exchanged for your wares the best of all kinds of spices, and all precious stones, and gold.  
Haran, Canneh, Eden, Asshur, and Chilmad traded with you.  
These traded with you in choice garments, in clothes of blue and embroidered work, and in carpets of colored stuff, bound with cords and made secure; in these they traded with you.  
The ships of Tarshish traveled for you with your merchandise. "

_So you were filled and heavily laden in the heart of the seas._  
Your rowers have brought you out into the high seas. The east wind has wrecked you in the heart of the seas.  
Your riches, your wares, your merchandise, your mariners and your pilots, your caulkers, your dealers in merchandise, and all your men of war who are in you, with all your company that is in your midst, sink into the heart of the seas on the day of your ruin.  
At the sound of the cry of your pilots the countryside shakes,  
and down from their ships come all that handle the oar. The mariners and all the pilots of the sea stand on the shore  
and wail aloud over you, and cry bitterly. They cast dust on their heads and wallow in ashes;  
they make themselves bald for you, and gird themselves with sackcloth, and they weep over you in bitterness of soul, with bitter mourning.  
In their wailing they raise a lamentation for you, and lament over you: Who was ever destroyed like Tyre in the midst of the sea?  
When your wares came from the seas, you satisfied many peoples; with your abundant wealth and merchandise you enriched the kings of the earth.  
Now you are wrecked by the seas, in the depths of the waters; your merchandise and all your crew have sunk with you.  
All the inhabitants of the coastlands are appalled at you; and their kings are horribly afraid, their faces are convulsed.  
The merchants among the peoples hiss at you; you have come to a dreadful end and shall be no more for ever.'"

_(Ezekiel, XXVII)_

**Author´s Note:** #1This fic is very long. And I mean very, _very_ long. It´s divided by arcs, and covers the reigns of the four last kings of Númenor before the Downfall (Ar-Sakalthôr, Ar-Gimilzôr, Tar-Palantír and Ar-Pharazôn).

#2 The historical and cultural elements of this fic have been a) invented, b) adapted or c) transformed from a certain number of civilisations. However, I am not trying to mirror any of those civilisations in a total sense (obviously, since this would exclude the others) or even in a partial one, with the faithfulness of an historian. I am just using their elements for my own purposes.

#3 The most "obvious" of those civilisations (or at last the one that will become more obvious) is one I think that was very much in Tolkien´s own thoughts for a number of reasons. AFAIK, no one has ever reached this same conclusion, though I could be wrong. So feel free to be shocked and disagree with me.

#4 The Thorny Canon Issue: First and foremost, yes, I am following canon, at least a good 98 of it. There are one or two small changes, like the exact location of Armenelos (I just wanted it to be closer to the Meneltarma...). And one or two divergences. The main one is no doubt the date and nature of the exile(s) of the Faithful, an issue that wasn´t too clear in Tolkien´s own mind. The second is a divergence from the Akallabêth (the nature of the relationship between Ar-Pharazôn and Ar-Zimraphel), but it follows the information given by Tolkien in HoME XII: The Peoples of Middle-Earth. Amandil´s brother was stolen from that version as well.

Otherwise, I have built personalities for the characters, filled historical, religious and cultural gaps, and found solutions for the problems that Tolkien´s text presented for me as a writer. All those are my own, and might feel a bit unusual at times.

#5 Completion: I have written many chapters already, and planned everything until the end. Still, if I am struck by lightning in the next few months, or drown, or fall off a cliff, or simply decide that the fic is going to the dogs, after all, and that it´s not worth to continue it, it might be stopped. I will try to prevent this from happening, though.

**Warnings:** for now, none.

**Disclaimers:** The Silmarillion, The Unfinished Tales and HoME XII belong to Tolkien.


	2. Prologue: Child of Men

**_Child of Men_**  

"Elwen! Elwen!"

The Elf-woman stood up, closing her eyes to take a deep breath of the salty breeze of the Sea. Then, tenuously, she opened them again, and took everything in her sight.

The sand under her feet shone with a faint luminiscence, covered by a spreading white foam whenever a wave overtook her steps. Huge treetops loomed in the distance, emerald green and red from the fruits that hung upon their branches. Birds of many kinds sang in clear tones, calling for their mates and flying from one tree to another.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. The intensity of the colours dazzled her. She came from a fading world, and now she couldn´t look at any of those brilliant things without a searing-hot feeling of pain. In the morbidness of a single moment, a thought crept inside her mind, _I will not be able to live here anymore._

"Elwen!"

The man finally reached her, and threw his arms around her shaking body. She pushed her head against his chest, searching for a refuge in the comfortable darkness.

"You came..."

"I came." she nodded, smelling the scent that she had almost forgotten in her long years of solitude, a pale shadow lingering in Middle-Earth for the sake of a kin who had been too stubborn for their own good. "I missed you."

His head moved above hers, and she imagined that he was nodding. Feeling like a little child, she allowed him to manouevre her and guide her blind steps towards the welcoming warmth of the shore. There, they sat upon a mound of fine sand, and Elwen dared to open her eyes for the second time.

Blue. An onslaught of blue assaulted her, brilliant blue, and white. She turned towards him, and saw that his eyes were shining as he laid them on her. _Did hers shine still, as well?_ Or had their spark been quenched, like the bright colours of the world beyond those shores had dimmed under the breath of the Shadow?

Shaking still, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"You were delayed." he muttered, caressing her hair. A memory began to pierce through the haze in her mind, and she pulled closer to him.

"Yes." she nodded. "I was."

Almost against her own will, her glance became lost in the distance, but there was no trace of a star-shaped island in the horizon. He frowned curiously. His hand touched her neck, and the frown increased.

"You do not wear it anymore."

"No."

"What happened?"

Elwen could no longer keep her remembrances at bay. Slowly, she fixed her eyes on his, and laid her hands over his own before her lips curved to utter a single name.

"Inzilbêth."

The images began to flow.

o-o-o-o-o-o

_The wind had already started blowing harder before the island was in sight. But it had been only after Númenor fell to her left that the sky darkened._

_Elwen had never seen a tempest in the Great Sea, and the spectacle terrified her. Giant waves towered over her small boat, and the wind howled in her ears even after she covered them with her hands and huddled on the wooden plank floor, seized by an unknown and shameful kind of panic. The Noldor had fought the Shadow, but the wrath of Ossë did not even leave her the small mercy of a sword to defend herself with._

_One of the waves crashed inside the ship, with a roar of foam and darkness. Elwen was thrown overboard, in spite of her attempts to grab anything solid within reach of her blind thrashing. Her cries were smothered by water, as the ship that was never meant to collapse continued its voyage, drawing farther and farther from her._

_Terrified, she struggled not to be engulfed by the fathomless depth under her feet. She prayed to all the Valar that she had once forsaken to keep her alive, but the current pulled her away like a broken toy, swiftly, inexorably, and it was too late._

_o-o-o-o-o-o_

_Solid. There was something solid under her back. Gratefully, she leaned back as hard as she could, and realised that it did not move._

_Ground. She felt cushioned, safe. The embers of a fire cracked softly somewhere in a near distance. A hand touched her forehead, and she shook in surprise._

_Inmediately, the hand pulled back. With great efforts, Elwen opened her eyes, and forced them to focus while feeling the painful throbbing in her head._

_It was a cave. She was in a cave, faintly lit by a small hearth that lay almost at an arm´s reach from her couch. A girl was staring at her from a distance, shaking and looking like she was ready to bolt away. In her eyes, however, widened by fear as they were, Elwen was able to read an overconsuming curiosity, and she knew that she would stay._

_Small and dim. The girl was not an Elf, but one of the Secondborn. She should be one of the folk of Númenor, the proud island where no Elf was welcome, but there was no malice to be found in her. And she had tended to her wounds, she realised as her eyes fell upon a bandage in her chest._

" _You will not... kill me. Will you?" her saviour asked. Elwen´s glance betrayed a faint surprise, but it disappeared as she perceived the ardent hope in her tone and in her whole being, coming to her in waves. Where could such an intensity come from?_

" _I will not kill you, child of Men." she muttered, her voice hoarse and weak. The girl stared at her in amazement, then smiled warmly and relaxed a little._

" _I know. I always knew. You are not evil."_

_Elwen leaned back, inviting her to come closer again. She wanted to bask in her warmth, and forget the sudden images of dead Telerin mariners thrown over the seashore._

_The girl obeyed at once, as if pulled by a strong, enchanting force. Slowly, she lifted her hand, and hesitantly touched her forehead._

" _I... I found you unconscious, on the shore. If you... stay with me, I will take care of you."_

" _Will your people attack me if they find me?" the Elf asked, guessing her thoughts. The girl shook her head, avoiding her glance._

" _Nobody comes here." she muttered at last. And then, shyly. "My... name is Inzilbêth, Fair One."_

_The Noldo smiled at her. She had never seen such innocence in this marred world before, and it reminded her of what she had been once, in Valinor. She felt drawn towards the girl, small and insignifiant as she was._

" _I am Elwen."_

_o-o-o-o-o-o_

_True to her promise, Inzilbêth nursed her back to health, coming every day to change her bandages, bring her food, and watch her eat with a look of sheer wonder in her eyes. She never spoke unless asked, showing the same reverence that the first Men who entered Beleriand had shown the Elves who found them in their path. Every day, Elwen asked her kindly about her family and life, and she learned that she had been saved by the niece of the mighty lord of Andunië, leader of the party of the Elf-Friends on the island. They were in his lands, "and none will ever harm you here", the girl assured her many times, as if afraid that she would feel threatened and disappear in a whirl._

_Elwen, however, did not disappear. Even after her wounds had been tended and she became hale, even after she had built herself a new ship with Inzilbêth´s dedicated aid, she still lingered in the cave, unable to pry away from the innocent eyes of that girl. Though Inzilbêth was not aware of it herself, those eyes were asking for help._

_One night, she had a dream where Inzilbêth was swallowed by a wave, crying her name. Elwen tried to extend her hand and reach to her, but she could not save her from the pull of the current. The morning after this, the girl came singing with a food basket in her hands, and Elwen saw a dark shadow haunting her footsteps. She shivered, not knowing very well why._

_In time, the girl ventured to tell her the sad story of the Faithful of Númenor, her features veiled by sadness. Elwen listened in understanding silence, laying a hand over her shoulder._

" _They say that Elves are monsters. That they have the power to do terrible things, and that they have done them in the past." Inzilbêth looked down, in barely concealed anger. "They are so wrong!"_

_Elwen shook her head, allowing her eyes to become lost in the flames of the hearth._

" _We have done terrible things." she said, after a long pause. The girl turned a bewildered glance in her direction._

" _You are not evil!"_

_The Elf flinched at the desperate edge of her tone. Again. It felt like she needed that belief to carry on, to survive in a world where one belief warred against another. Good, evil. Allies and enemies. Faithful._

_Traitors._

" _No, I am not evil. I am a Child of Ilúvatar, and so are you." she said in her gentlest voice, caressing the side of her face as she did so. Little by little, the girl leaned to her touch. "We are free to follow our hearts, and this makes us capable of the greatest deeds, and also of the greatest evils. We, the Noldor, are like you, child of Men, but our deeds are higher and our evil more terrible, since the Creator gave us a greater power."_

_Inzilbêth nodded hesitantly to this, her features clouded by the first doubts of a growing maturity. Elwen smiled, though deep inside her heart broke upon seeing the girl´s purity disminished._

_That day, she began telling her stories of the First Age, and of the Downfall of the Noldor._

_o-o-o-o-o-o_

_She had been there for little less than nine months, when Inzilbêth sought her one morning. Elwen did not even have to look at her, before an unbearable anguish exploded inside her mind. She reeled back from the impact._

" _What happened?" she asked, laying down the block of wood that she had been carving with a knife. The girl reached her side in quick strides, and threw herself on her arms without saying a word._

" _Calm down, child." Elwen whispered in her ear, willing her tone to be soothing. The girl´s body convulsed with sobs. "What happened?"_

_After several moments, a muffled voice finally answered her._

" _I- I am marrying the King´s son."_

_Marrying? The Elf´s body went rigid from shock. But she was a child!_

_Maybe their customs were different, since they were allowed only a short span of time under the light of the Sun, she tried to reason. And yet..._

" _And, do you love him?" she asked, touching her dark hair. Inzilbêth shook her head with violence._

" _I... I have never seen him, ever! The marriage is a political arrangement... an odious, political arrangement!!"_

_At these words, the Elf´s heart went out more than ever for the stricken young girl in her arms. Elves married for love- she tried to imagine the bleakness of a life bound to the soul of a stranger, barren for eternity, and failed. There was cruelty in the very concept, like in that sinister old legend of the Elves who were forced to bend their souls to Morgoth and become Orcs against their will. For a moment, she wondered in alarm if Inzilbêth would fade from the pain of the intrusion and leave this world –but the Secondborn could not fade._

_**They could not even escape.** _

" _Life is a path full of unknown turns. You may learn to love him in time..." she muttered, but her voice came out with a forced tone, devoid of any comforting power._

_What did she know? What could she say? For the first time in her life she felt powerless in front of a mortal girl, and so she closed her mouth, ashamed._

" _He does not like my people. He hates Elves and Elf-friends!"_

_Elwen, shook her head helplessy, and let her cry undisturbed. Two birds were singing in the branch over her heads, their song shrill and clear._

_At some point, the girl´s sobs subsided, and she clumsily tried to get up. Elwen withdrew her arms at once, and stared at the small, so human soaked face, red and puffed from crying so much._

_And then, it happened._

_First, it was nothing but the song of the birds, growing more and more confuse inside her ear until it turned into a roar. Then, however Inzilbêth´s features began to recede, and between them both, she saw a great wave like the one in her dream, rising over hills, mountains and pastures._

_A hand grasped hers, as if frantically trying to pull her back to her reality. In an involuntary movement, it brought it close to the girl´s belly, and Elwen felt it grow suddenly cold. An image flashed in her sight, of two serpents that issued from the womb and started fighting each other._

_And Inzilbêth´s frightened glance._

" _What is it? Elwen! Please!"_

_Elwen blinked, and grabbed her hand to find a way back. She must have gone pale._

" _I saw..." she began, but then let her voice trail away and shook her head. She could not tell her what she had seen. She was not even sure herself._

_And still..._

" _Take this." she said in an impulse, taking the silver chain from her neck and offering it to the girl. The silver was wrought with an emerald, and it had been crafted by her husband when he asked for her hand. She had worn it while she crossed the Helcaraxë, as well as in Beleriand till the end of the War of the Jewels, relishing in the warm comfort of the love that had made it. When it came away, she felt cold and bereaved, but still she pressed it against Inzilbêth´s hand._

" _I... cannot accept.." the girl protested weakly. She shook her head. She knew that she was doing the right thing, even if the reasons escaped her own comprehension._

" _Take this, Child of Men." she repeated, trying to banish the dread that had clouded her fëa when she had looked into her eyes._

_o-o-o-o-o-o_

_This was the last time that she had ever seen Inzilbêth. When the girl did not return, Elwen understood that she had been claimed by her inevitable fate, and fled the island in the boat that she had built with her help. A pair of oars allowed her to travel far from the shore without displaying conspicuous sails, and once that Númenor was left behind, a swift current began pushing her towards Tol Eressëa._

_o-o-o-o-o-o_

He stared at her, in thoughtful silence. His hands travelled down her neck, absently drawing the shapes of his lost handiwork.

"I will make another one for you." he finally offered, sealing his pledge with a kiss.

She nodded with a small smile, but soon tore her eyes away to search the horizon for the island that now lay beyond her sight. She imagined a pair of lightless eyes at the other side of the Sea, looking at the same waves without joy or hope... and behind them, a greater wave of growing darkness.

_Danger._

"Be safe, Child of Men." she muttered, joining her hands as if in prayer.

* * *


	3. A Controversial Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story profits from the fact that the archives that survived the Downfall were few and somewhat lacking in accuracy and information. ("Even such documents as were preseved in Gondor, or in Imladris (...) suffered from loss and destruction by neglect." _Tolkien, Unfinished Tales. )_ Maybe this could explain my particular version of the date and nature of the exile(s) of the Faithful. If not, consider it uncanonical or of doubtful canonicity.

**Note:** This story profits from the fact that the archives that survived the Downfall were few and somewhat lacking in accuracy and information. ("Even such documents as were preseved in Gondor, or in Imladris (...) suffered from loss and destruction by neglect." _Tolkien, Unfinished Tales. )_ Maybe this could explain my particular version of the date and nature of the exile(s) of the Faithful. If not, consider it uncanonical or of doubtful canonicity.

On a second note, I am sorry for the information overdose in this chapter. It´s the first, after all, and none of you has ever been to "my" Númenor before.

**Arc I  
A Controversial Wedding**

_Year 3033 of the Second Age- 2nd year of the reign of Ar-Sakalthôr_

_Too young._ Not ready to meddle in politics and much less to do it effectively. As a spy there wasn´t much she could do, as well –not like this, cut away from her relatives and their lackeys.

Inzilbêth seemed to notice that he was watching her from the other side of the hall, because her small fingers began fidgeting nervously with the flame red veil that covered her face. Next to her, her uncle was talking to a couple of minor noblemen, who nodded in silence to everything that he said.

"Those fools would not even have looked at him two years ago."a scathing voice commented at his side. Gimilzôr gave a brief bow to the tall and lanky figure of Ar-Sakalthôr, and repressed the sudden urge to frown.

"Indeed, my King. Indeed."

Last year, as his father became King, Gimilzôr had taken the much contested decision to restore the Lords of Andunië to their old lands. Worrying news were constantly coming from the East –of plots and sedition and exchanges of treasonous messages with the king of the Elves, and he had thought that to have Eärendur and his family back in Armenelos, though humiliating, would enable a closer form of control over their actions and tear them away from their support. To this day, father and son had not wholly reconciled over that manouevre, and when he had decided to marry the niece of the man in question –a convenable façade for the unexpected change of politics, asides from a hostage for the Palace-, the King had resolved to oppose the match and even refused to attend to the wedding.

Gimilzôr shook his head, remembering how they had fought back then. His father had refused to see the logic in his actions, and told him that the greatest fool was the man who was fooled twice over while thinking himself clever. Gimilzôr had listened patiently, then said that he would do as he pleased in this matter or leave Númenor to its fate in Ar-Sakalthôr´s hands. It had been the first time that he had allowed himself to directly threaten the King in this strain, but he was sure and well aware that he was following the correct path.

The same morning of the ceremony, however, as he went to pay his customary visit to his father in his gardens, he had found him tending to his vegetables, and in quite a friendly mood. A carefully prying conversation had convinced Gimilzôr that he could take the risk of inviting him to the wedding again. So in the end he had come, and his son had been virtually unable since the beginning of the evening to leave his side or talk to anyone, watching over him lest he would say something inappropriate in front of the wrong person.

"She is too young." he was commenting now, in a thoughtful tone.

Gimilzôr nodded, distracted. His new wife had been left alone on a chair close to a heavily laden table, and she was staring in silence at the people who talked and laughed around her. Though he could not see her face, everything from the nervous movement of her fingers to her slightly hunched pose, as if she was covering from an unseen threat of a blow, helped him to picture her uneasiness in a place full of strangers, who seemed to have forgotten about her existence after one or two appraising looks. She had grown up in the forests of Andustar until recently, he remembered - she might well not be used to company and the refined civilisation of Armenelos.

Repressing an unseeming feeling of sympathy, he looked in the other direction. There, next to the window in the corner, he could spot Zarhâd, lord of Sorontil and the Northern lands of Forostar, one of the strongest allies of the Sceptre. A woman was talking to him, and Gimilzôr assumed it had to be his daughter Zarhil, subject of countless rumours throughout the Island. She owned her own ship, and it was whispered that she had sailed far North, where the ships of Númenor did not go since the times of King Aldarion. He had also heard that she could not stay away from the Sea for long, because she was tormented by strong pangs of sea-longing.

This was certainly a strange trait- if maybe not wholly unbelievable, since she could claim ancestry from Aldarion, Sea-luster, bad husband and even worse King. And yet, Gimilzôr´s curiosity was aroused in spite of himself by all the stories surrounding that kind of she-Elf. After a moment of thought, he made a gesture to one of the courtiers who was standing nearby, and sent him downstairs to summon them – and then, he turned a wary look in the direction of the King.

Ar-Sakalthôr was still sitting on his throne, drinking from a goblet of wine. A shadow had fallen over his features, and his son could perceive his morose mood from afar. His eyes stared stormily at those who were merrymaking under his feet, but he did not say a word.

This meant that soon he would want to retire, Gimilzôr thought in relief. He had always liked solitude, which had helped his son enormously in last year´s endeavours to make the people of Númenor believe that they were ruled by a capable man. Those who lived in distant lands received the decisions of the Sceptre without asking who was behind them; the people of Armenelos were kept away from the palace, and the lords´s inquisitiveness had been tightly controlled by Gimilzôr´s set of complicated protocol rules, which had also enabled him to control the Court as no crowned head had done before.

Unwilling to leave him wholly unsupervised, however, even in this state, he took the precaution of calling a chamberlain to keep the King company. That man seemed somehow to have a soothing effect on him, maybe because he shared his love for gardening. He would keep the old fool busy enough with some talk about turnips.

Immediately after thinking this, Gimilzôr shook his head, and cursed under his breath. He did not – _could_ not- think of his father in those terms. It made everything even more difficult.

Sometimes, if he tried, he was able to summon some foggy remembrances of a time when Ar-Sakalthôr had been a capable man, a strong person that his young son could admire and rely on. The eccentricities had begun at some point, he supposed, even though he couldn´t clearly remember when, ever growing in folly and intensity until they couldn´t be rationalised anymore. And then, the _fits_...

Ar-Zimrathôn, Gimilzôr´s grandfather, had been the first to give it a name, even as he struggled in his bed against the Doom of Men. As soon as he had known that he would lose the battle, he had summoned him to his side, and told him that his father´s spirit was posessed by a Curse, and that he would have left the Sceptre to him if the laws had allowed and the scandal could have been averted. At the same time as the heavy responsibility of ruling in someone else´s stead had fallen upon his shoulders, Gimilzôr had thus learned that his father´s strange behaviour had a name –a _Curse,_ the doing of the evil spirits of the West.

"The lord of Sorontil waits for leave to approach the Throne." a whisper took him out of his moping. He gave the bowing man a nod.

"He may approach." he said. His glance fell down to the feet of the stairs, where Zarhâd and his daughter were waiting for his permission, and appraised them as they came closer and bowed, she three feet farther than him.

"You may raise your head." he told them. At once, she sought his look, and his eyes widened slightly in quickly repressed surprise.

That woman seemed to feel distinctly uncomfortable with refined ceremonials, and overdid every movement that she copied from her father, but there certainly was no coyness in the glance she gave him. And, what shocked Gimilzôr even more, there was nothing in her of that famous morbid Elvish blood that wasted away pining for the sea. She was plain-looking, almost like the wives of the barbarians of Middle-Earth. Her skin, hardened by the elements, provided a strong contrast with her silk green dress, and her movements were brusque and ungainly.

"We humbly offer our best wishes in the auspicious event of your wedding day." her father recited. He was a strong and battle-hardened man, and the Prince could see that his features were quite similar to his daughter´s. But then, -unless one was talking about Elves, of course- what was unusual for a woman looked quite natural in the countenance of a man.

She nodded.

"Might you be the Lady Zarhil?" he inquired, addressing her. "I had heard much about you, but I had never seen you myself until today."

Zarhâd looked a bit flustered at those words –could he think that, after fulfilling his duties of alternate attendance in Armenelos for five years his daughter´s reputation had not reached the Throne?

"That is certainly true." she replied, with another nod. She seemed about to add something else, but his father looked at her and she fell silent.

Gimilzôr was more curious than ever.

"Is it true what they say, that you have inherited the sea-longing of King Aldarion?"

Now, it was the lord of Sorontil who seemed at the brink of opening his mouth. If he ever began to form a word, however, it was immediately overshadowed by his daughter´s loud laughter.

"Sea-longing!" she repeated, shaking her head. "Now, that´s a big word if I ever heard one!"

"Zarhil!" her father muttered, scandalised.

"I have been to places where no one has been since Aldarion´s time." she continued, encouraged by Gimilzôr´s silence. "I have seen islands made of ice in the North, and the sun rising in a blaze of green light. That is why I like sailing, not because there is a... strange sickness inside me. I apologise if this offends my lord the Prince, but those rumours are bullshit."

Zarhâd´s face had gone almost as white as the ice islands his daughter had mentioned.

"If I may, I would wish to apologise for my daughter´s insolence." he said in one single breath. "It is the first time that she comes to Armenelos, and she is not used to..."

"Never mind that." Gimilzôr cut him with a gesture of his hand. Far from offending him, her attitude almost wrung a smile from the usually expressionless mask of his face. He could not believe how the people who had whispered those things could be so foolish: now that he had heard her speak, it seemed to him that she posessed enough common sense to make light of seven Curses. And this was something that would certainly come in handy for the people who inhabited the Palace those days.

For a moment, he even pondered briefly the idea of persuading his father to remarry and make her his queen, in spite of the daunting age difference that would reduce the gap between Inzilbêth and him to a mere trifle.

"Is the... King faring well?" Zarhâd immediately asked, still a little out of his depths. Gimilzôr turned his head towards the throne, where Ar-Sakalthôr had already stood up to take the door to his chambers, side by side with his chamberlain –fortunately, without staggering under the influence of the wine.

"He is well." The entirety of the people downstairs hadn´t even realised yet that he had left. "But a good King cannot forget matters of governance because of a mere party."

"I see." the man nodded immediately. Gimilzôr made a gesture of dismissal.

"I am glad to have met your worthy daughter. Tomorrow we expect you at the Council."

The lord of Sorontil bowed and took his leave, obviously a little too relieved. As soon as they had left his vicinity, Gimilzôr saw a heated argument break between him and the lady Zarhil.

Glad that the coast had been cleared, he allowed himself a moment of weakness in which he took a deep breath - and then told a servant to summon the lord of Andúnië.

o-o-o-o-o-o

"I plan to retire in short, and I intend my wife to come with me, as it is natural."he explained, as soon as Eärendur had reached his side, bowed, and dared to venture the reason for the summons. Behind him, Inzilbêth advanced a careful step, and almost tripped over the folds of the veil. "So I will finally see if there is truth in the rumour that she has a star-shaped black dot over her face."

Eärendur chuckled at the joke, as comfortably as if they had been friends for all their lives. Gimilzôr had already become used to interviews with him during the past year, and reserved for them the pleasant, jolly mood that would have made an intelligent man´s blood curdle in his veins. And yet Eärendur always picked the cue and followed it easily enough –so easily, in fact, that he often surpassed him at his own game, his sea-grey eyes gleaming with sparks of nearly genuine mirth. Like all his ancestors, he was a master of deceit.

_And too clever for their own good_ , Gimilzôr added in his mind as he recalled the full history of the Lords of the Western lands. Since the reign of Tar-Atanamir, those opportunists had been Elf-friends –a commercially if not socially advantageous course at the time-, and amassed a fabulous wealth from their monopoly of trade with the Elven realms.

And yet, soon enough it became apparent that it was political influence they really were after. By their wealth and lineage, they became leaders of the men who had been cursing the name of the Kings in secret for a time, but who hadn´t done anything of notice before they were there to direct them and offer them a safe haven in the lands of Andustar to conspire against the royal designs. It had been a very habile move; to use a minor disagreement over languages and religious policies to become a major political force. Purposefully they kept bestowing ancient, raspy sounding Elven names on themselves, and gave themselves the title of preservers of true tradition. And yet their perfidy had still recoiled from the highest treason, until Ar-Abattârik´s death had given them the chance to seize the Sceptre that they had been yearning after for so long.

Ar-Abattârik had been married to a Queen from the line of Elros, beautiful yet barren. No offspring had come from their union, and yet the King had sired a son on another woman, one of the Palace´s maids. It would seem natural that he would be the heir to the Sceptre, and yet the Doom had crept over his father unnoticed, in his sleep, and it had been custom in Númenor until that day that a King would name his sucessor before he died.

Discord raged in the Palace and the Council of Armenelos for months after the royal burial. The Lord of Westernesse stepped out of his hypocritical meek role and claimed that the existence of a bastard was abhorrent according to the Laws and Customs of the Elder Race, which Númenor had honoured since the times of their first king. The son of the King was therefore unfit to rule, and upholding Tar-Aldarion´s laws on female inheritance, the legitimate sucessor was Ar-Abattarik´s eldest niece, the Lady Alissha, an Elf-friend like them. Civil strife ensued, cleverly disguised under religious pretences. All the hidden Elf-friends came forth and rushed to the support of the would-be usurper, many others were seduced by his Elven riches, and the rightful heir, devoid of support and alone, would have perished were it not for his natural resources and bravery of spirit. Refusing to surrender to his powerful enemies, he took their cue instead, and learned from them how to fight that war with their own weapons. He proclaimed that Númenor was a kingdom of Men and should be governed by the laws of Men, who had bastards when they couldn´t produce a male heir by their wives. Through incendiary speeches, he made the people in the capital and the whole of Mittalmar understand the dangers of letting the Elf-lovers seize the throne, destroy the temples and persecute all those who prayed to the gods of the men of Númenor. Seized by a religious frenzy, the courage of those men had finally awakened, and they expelled and defeated the Elf-friends from Armenelos.

Retribution had been terrible after those disorders. The new King, who gave himself the name of Ar-Adunakhôr and proclaimed proudly that there was no other Lord of the West than the King of Númenor, had deprived his enemies of their titles, lands, wealth, and seats at the Council, and banished them to the East of the island. He had killed many of their supporters, and banished others to Middle-Earth. His rival was convicted of treason and imprisoned for life in the Northern region. And, still not happy with this, he established that whoever would speak of anything that the Elves had said, thought, touched or made in his presence or that of his servants would suffer the same fate.

Once that the cancer had been extirpated, Númenor had flourished like never before. True to his promise, Ar-Adunakhôr had passed a new law code, built magnificent temples, spent the lavish sums that he had taken from his enemies in encouraging Adûnaic letters, undertook brilliant expeditions in Middle-Earth, and died leaving a kingdom whose splendour was unparalleled even in the annals of their own people to his day.

And that was why it was so _vexing_ , Gimilzôr could not help but think, that this brilliance hadn´t been extended to the rest of his line. As the King´s descendants had diminished, the Lords of Westernesse had kept their wits intact under adversity, and now he, the great-grandson of Ar-Adunakhôr, was forced to lower himself to keep polite discussions with that snake who had returned from exile barely a year ago.

At least, he thought, _he_ would never lower his guard.

"I assure you that she is quite charming, my lord prince." Eärendur protested, turning back to look at his niece. Aware that they were talking about her, Inzilbêth had turned back to her fidgeting.

"Come." he said, extending his hand towards her. She stared at him from under her veil, as if trying to guess what she was supposed to do, then answered his gesture shyly. Her hand was small and pale as ivory. "You are dismissed, Lord Eärendur."

Nodding with a smile and unscrutable eyes, the Lord of Andunië bowed, and watched them retreat.

o-o-o-o-o-o

A while later, when he finally entered the bedroom alone, ornamental garments already taken away and dark curls flowing freely down his back, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed. She was giving her back to him, but the veil had been discarded, allowing him to have a glimpse of brilliant plaits of black hair tied over a light dress with silver embroiderings.

It had been custom since the times of Ar-Belzagar that a royal princess would cover her face the day of her wedding, so the assembled Palace would not look upon her until she had laid with her husband. Most of the times that he could recall this had been nothing but a mere formality, since the women had been well-known descendants of Elros who had been many times to the palace already, but now, for once, the ritual had been carried to its last consequences. None, not even Gimilzôr himself, had ever seen her face.

Noticing his presence at last, Inzilbêth gave a little gasp and quickly turned back. As he had his first glimpse of her he was not able to suppress a startle, and she, taken aback by his expression, let her eyes drop to the ground. His blood ran cold for a second.

_She is an Elf!_ his first thought was, beginning to make the signal of the Hand- but no, what was he saying, she _had_ to be a human. Or had Eärendur´s sister bedded one of them in secret, only to beget a child who would be his undoing?

At once, he tried to quench the flow of his insane thoughts. They could not have known back then that she would be his wife. They could not have planned it, and yet her beauty pierced and numbed him like the fiercest of weapons. He tried to search her for the abhorred features of the Western kin, their sea-grey eyes and the beaky nose of a bird of prey, but her nose was small and graceful, and her eyes huge and stirring. Her every feature seemed carefully measured and traced with a minute perfection, diabolical and Elvish.

Gimilzôr was tempted for a moment to turn away from her and leave. He now saw the extent of the trap of Eärendur, and he would not fall in it. He would never fall to the lure of that woman, and suffer his vigilant eyes to be closed.

A raspy, regular noise interrupted his agitation, and Gimilzôr realised belatedly that it was the sound of her breath against her sleeve. He forced himself to blink, to look at her rationally. Here he was, the proud heir of Númenor, facing a scared, defenceless young girl and in sheer fear of her!

The powerful temptress, meanwhile, was looking like she wished she could be anywhere else but in his chambers. _They fear you more than what you fear them,_ his mother had told him once as a child, when he recoiled from a garden spider.

"Inzilbêth." he said, and she lifted her beautiful eyes to look at him again. He blinked over and over, as an unknown feeling stirred in his chest like an ache, like a longing for something that he had lost once and didn´t even remember.

Still seemingly unaware of her powers, she stared at him in shyness.

"Do I have to... be _naked_... for this?"

This innocent question brought a rush of new images to his head, unsettling him even further. A part of him burned and rebelled at his own reluctance, as if she wasn´t there for him to take! She was his wife.

He swallowed. It shouldn´t be like this. He should be in control, and not allowing the enemy to confuse his thoughts.

"Whatever makes you comfortable." he replied with a studied indifference. She contemplated the answer with a surprised blink, then nodded.

"I... will keep my dress, then." she decided. Her pale cheeks were coloured by a reddish hue. "No one has ever seen me naked before, only my mother when I was little. And she´s dead."

Gimilzôr nodded back at her nervous ramblings, trying to find a measure of lucidity. He managed to wring his eyes away from her face, and then they came to rest upon a chain that she was wearing around her neck. In the centre, just above her chest, there was a green gem of the colour of the summer seas, wrought in a silver engraving.

"This, however, will get in the way." he muttered, extending a hand to take it. Her reaction was as quick as it was unexpected; letting go of a gasp, both her hands flew to her treasure in order to fend it off from him.

When she realised what she had done, her blush increased even further.

"I am sorry." she mumbled, withdrawing her hand with reluctance. "I... never take it away."

Gimilzôr took it away nonetheless, now unhindered, and folded it neatly in his hand. This action, somehow, helped him to feel better.

The silver around the gem had been crafted in the shape of diminute leaves of great beauty and detail. It was clearly an Elven device... old yet well-kept, surely a heirloom that had escaped Ar-Adunakhôr´s vengeful wrath.

He put it aside, then turned his attention back to her. She, however, was not looking at him anymore, but at the table where he had laid her jewel. The look of mournful loss in her eyes struck him to the core.

He sighed, uncomfortable yet again. _He could not even think of her as the enemy._

"Was it your mother´s?" he asked, in a gentler voice. She stared at him in silence, slightly dazed.

"Yes." she nodded, at last. "It was hers."

"It will still be here tomorrow."

And with this he pulled her close and kissed her in the ear, feeling her body first tense in his arms, and then adjust little by little. His hands roamed down her back slowly, underneath Elven silks, proving to him with every touch that it was human flesh he was feeling.

Even the following day, however, as both lay entwined under the sheets and he smelled his own scent over the dishevelled hair of his sleeping wife, he could not wholly discard his unease.

* * *


	4. The Shadow and the Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I still plan on updating this weekly. I didn´t update last week because I was in Greece on a trip.

 

**The Shadow and the Child**

Inzilbêth sighed, as she dipped the quill into the inkpot and gave a frowning glare to the much abused parchment in front of her. The letters were strange to her, large and bold, with spaces between each other and all in the same line.

_Alef, bet, gimel, dalet..._

The girl in front of her smiled. The Princess gave a delicate pout, feeling almost ridiculous. She knew their _alphabet_ well enough, she should be able to do this, too.

"The second letter is not drawn like that, my lady."

Inzilbêth crossed it out, then realised that she had to start the phrase again for the fourth time. For a moment, she felt tempted to throw it aside and leave the gloom of her chambers for the sunlight of the inner gardens. The scrawl-like, primitive-looking scripture of the folk of Armenelos seemed to elude her in spite of her best efforts.

Repressing a strong pang of nostalgia, she remembered a time when her calligraphy had been beautiful, and the hand that guided hers loving and patient. Sunbeams had kissed her forehead freely back then, and birds had perched to sing in the branches of the surrounding trees, instead of echoing each other´s laments in their captivity under the twilight of the Palace.

Back when she had still been with her...

" _Up... now, down... now, there is a circle, and the tehta goes here, see?"_

_Inzilbêth´s grey eyes widened in wonder, as she saw the mysterious beauty of what they had produced. Those lines could speak and say things, her mother had said._

" _What does it mean, Mama?"_

" _This is Elbereth. The Queen of the West." the woman answered. "She sits upon the holy mountain of Taniquetil, with stars for jewels."_

_Inzilbêth´s wonder turned to rapture._

" _I wish I could see her!"_

_Her mother shook her head at her enthusiasm, smiling a bit sadly._

" _We are not welcome in the Undying Lands, my child. The greed and evil of Men took them away from us."_

_The child frowned, confused. She did not understand. It was the same thing that she had been told when she had wished to see the mountain of Meneltarma, and the kingdom of Gil-galad in Middle-Earth, and the King´s palace in Armenelos, and her active imagination had built strange images of evil and greedy Men stealing all those places and standing guard around them with sticks and swords. But somehow, this did not work in her mind for what she had heard about the Undying Lands. The **Valar** lived there, didn´t they?_

" _How, Mama? How did this happen?" she asked, unable to repress her inquisitiveness. Her mother let go of a deep sigh, and gathered her on her lap._

" _Long ago, the King and his men grew proud, and turned to evil. They banned the Elves from Númenor, scorned the Valar and adored cruel gods. Because of them, Númenor is now an unholy place, and the Valar and the Elves do not want to have anything to do with its people."_

" _But we are not evil!" the girl protested, shaken. Her mother caressed her hair._

" _No, we are not. We are the Faithful, my love. Our people opposed this evil, and kept the friendship of the Elves. This made the King very angry, and he banished them all to a barren place in the East, where they are watched night and day and they cannot escape." For a moment, Inzilbêth felt her mother´s welcoming body tense behind her back. She turned to look at her, and noticed her quick efforts to regain her smile. "Your grandmother, your uncle, your aunt, your cousin; all your family is there, Inzilbêth."_

" _And why are we here, then?" she asked, feeling as if a veil of deep mystery was starting to unravel. Her mother´s fond smile returned at its fullest._

" _It was because of your father. He is kin to the King, handsome and brave. He was appointed governor of the East, and he fell in love with me. He risked his life to take me back with him. "Inzilbêth felt the warmth come back to her at this. "Your father is a great man, Inzilbêth. A great man."_

_In thoughtful silence, the girl leaned her head over her mother´s shoulder, and allowed her to touch her hair for a while. The things she had heard that day would need a long time to be mulled over._

" _One day, you will find someone like him." she heard a soft voice mutter absently above her head. "Yes... I am sure you will lead a happy life, my love, away from darkness and uncertainty."_

"My lady!"

The Princess awoke from her daydream to a young woman´s voice turned shrill from alarm. In sudden apprehension, she jerked away from the parchment, as if her clumsy letters could jump and attack her at any moment.

A huge ink stain fell upon the text, second to the one that had caused the ruckus in the first place.

"Oh, I´m- I´m sorry for scaring you!" Nidhra muttered hurriedly. "But by Queen Ashtarte the Foam-Rider, the parchment is utterly ruined now!"

"Never mind." she said, wincing a bit. That woman swore by the cruel gods quite a lot, even though Inzilbêth herself had to admit that there was no other trace of evil to be found in her.

But then, who could have known that the things who had once seemed so easy in her mother´s tales would turn out to be so difficult, here in Armenelos? Even her husband, cold and loveless, had become confusing, the day that she had ventured to raise her face for a moment and seen her fear and disquietude mirrored in his eyes as they lay side by side.

_I am not evil. I am a Child of Ilúvatar, and so are you._

_We are free to follow our hearts..._

"I am not making any progress." she complained, pushing her failed endeavours aside. _The sun..._ she so wanted to see, and feel the sun. She felt dizzy.

Suddenly, she could feel it. At first it was nothing but the tiniest stir inside her, but then it evolved into a distinct, sharp yet painless blow to the walls of her womb.

"It´s... it´s kicking!" she cried joyfully, leaning back on her chair. At once, Nidhra stood up and ran to lay an admiring hand over the Princess´s round belly.

"It is, indeed! Blessed be the Queen of the Seas!" Her smile disminished a bit, and Inzilbêth saw her endeavours to regain the composure that she had lost for a moment. "Who would have guessed that you would give fruit so young, my lady..."

The young Princess and soon-to-be-mother nodded happily. Back when she had first noticed the growth, she had been scared and prayed for it to disappear, but soon all those wishes, images and hopes had burst in in a rush, and her fears gave way to impatience and delight.

She would be mother to a baby. She would cradle it in her arms and teach it everything, and tell it her mother´s stories, and then both would laugh together. She would not be alone anymore.

"... and who cares about those stuck-up old ladies and their ideas." the lady-in-waiting kept rambling in a lower tone. "Give the baby to be raised by an old hag, indeed! As if the Princess wasn´t enough to..."

"What?" Aghast, Inzilbêth interrupted her. The happiness left her at once, like a fleeting ray of warmth after a cloud covered the sun. "What do you mean, give the baby away? It´s... it´s _my_ child!"

"Of course it is." Nidhra replied immediately, guilty for having upset her. In her distress, the Princess took her hand in hers, and she pressed it comfortingly. "Of course it is, my lady."

"But then..." Inzilbêth refused to let go. "Then, what does this... talk mean?"

"Nothing at all." the lady-in-waiting stated firmly. "Some women who have nothing better to do than nosing in the lives of others were whispering that the Princess was too young at seventeen to be fit to be a mother, and since it´ll be the child of the heir to the throne... But there is nothing to their words. If you can bear it, the point is moot – you _are_ a mother!"

"And the Prince?"

"Probably never even heard those rumours. As most people in Armenelos." In slow, repeated motions, the young woman caressed Inzilbêth´s hand until she finally felt it go limp in somewhat uneasy relief. "It was nothing else than the idle gossip of a bunch of bored ladies, may the Doom take them. I apologise to your ladyship for having brought them to your ears imprudently."

"I am the mother. I am the child´s mother." the Princess repeated intently, as if she wished somehow to engrave the words on her own mind.

Out of an instinct, two protective hands covered her belly, where her yet-unborn child had already stopped stirring and gone back to sleep.

o-o-o-o-o-o

But the little one was tenacious, and impatient to see the light. Day and night, it moved and kicked with increasing strength, and two weeks before it was due it had already begun pushing to find its way out. Inzilbêth was immediately confined to her bed, as the whole Palace swarmed with rumours and the comings and goings of attendants and midwives.

The young girl hadn´t been prepared for the pain that giving birth would inflict on her. Her body was racked by strange convulsions, and as she had barely managed to breathe and ride them, she felt as if a searing pain had torn her body in two. Blurred images and comforting voices held her by the hands, whispering that everything would go well, but she could not see how anything would ever be well again and wished to die.

"Push harder, my lady. Push harder!"

_Leave me alone!_ she wanted to say, but the only thing that came from her mouth was a groan. Another pang racked her body, and she pressed the hand that held hers so strongly that she heard a yelp.

"Almost... almost there!"

_Almost there._ As those words managed to seep inside her mind, they gave her a little heart, and she decided to make a last effort. _It was almost there._

Her strength focused in the small, terrible spot between her spread legs, determined to pull it out before it killed her. A scream echoed through the busy room, and the last thing she really remembered before pain filled everything was feeling ashamed and appalled at its raw sound.

"A boy!"

Inzilbêth tried to open her eyes, but soon gave up and closed them dizzily. People were running about, doing things and talking. Suddenly, it was as if the world had been turned to the reverse; she was the one lying limp in her bed, and the others were moving.

_A boy..._

A shrill, mewling sound reached her ears from a great distance.

"My child..." she muttered. Even to speak was now pain. "My child..."

"Ssshhh, my lady." a comforting voice whispered in her ear. "It..."

Then, to her surprise and shock, a male voice interrupted the first from a similarly close position.

"You did very well, Inzilbêth."

Once again, Inzilbêth opened her eyes. The light hurt a little less now, and as her sight began to adjust, she saw Gimilzôr standing next to her bed, pale and erect. At his left side, one of the midwives was cradling a bundle, and realising what it contained, the young mother extended her hands towards it.

"My child..." she repeated. She wanted to hold it in her arms, but Gimilzôr shook his head and told the woman to leave the bedside. Inzilbêth saw her son disappear, and a cold terror gripped at her heart. Forgetting her exhaustion, her body began to fret and try to struggle up in weak motions. "No!"

_He was **her** child, _she thought in anguish, her terrified mind recalling and magnifying the rumours about her young age and her lack of abilities as a mother. She wouldn´t let them take him away. He was her child...

"Lay down and rest, Inzilbêth." he said, and laid an unusually gentle hand over her shoulder. "He will be back soon, and then you will hold him for as long as you like."

"But..." she mumbled, feeling exhaustion come back to her in waves. Most of the voices had already left the room, but there were two women whispering somewhere near the foot of the bed.

"I must go now." he said. "The King is waiting."

With no further word, he turned away and left. Inzilbêth shivered, scared of the new loneliness of her bed. She felt bereaved, like she hadn´t been in all those months in which a little life had been stirring inside her womb.

Out of instinct, her hand travelled towards a spot over her chest, and she clasped the gem that hung from the silver chain around her neck. A faint warmth enveloped her at once, growing steadier and steadier until her shivers stopped. She rolled to the side, all her thoughts grown confused and dizzy, and soon fell asleep.

Minutes, or hours later, she awoke with a terrible headache. There was someone in the room again, and she immediately opened her eyes, somehow expecting to see Gimilzôr. But instead it was a woman... one of her ladies-in-waiting, carrying Inzilbêth´s child in her arms.

Joy and relief lighted the Princess´s features, in spite of her state.

"Give him to me."she said. The woman nodded, and leaned forwards to lay him carefully in the space under the young mother´s left elbow. Inzilbêth changed her position to be able to look at him face to face, marveling at his warmth, and stared at him rapturously.

_Valar,_ was the first thing that crossed her mind, how could she have imagined that it would be so tiny? He stirred a bit, and then scrunched his face in an unsucessful attempt to repress a yawn. This immediately won her over, and she felt her heart brim with love for the little creature that had grown inside her.

_Her child..._

With the insatiable curiosity of a new mother, her eyes took his every feature, consigning them to her memory at the same time as she sought for similarities. Happily, she realised that he had inherited the look of her mother´s ancestors, with their same sharp nose and their mouth and chin. A tuft of dark hair grew over his little head, and she fantasised about the strong and beautiful black mane that he would grow in time.

As if he had noticed that he was being held by his mother, the baby opened his eyes. For a little while he squinted, trying, she imagined, to take everything in sight.

_Sea-grey eyes,_ she thought, feeling as if her heart would burst from too much joy. Stretching her neck, she kissed him in the forehead, and the baby let go of a whimper. Afraid that he would start wailing, she quickly stretched a finger in front of his tiny nose, murmuring sweet nothings to calm him down.

The child responded soon, and started to coo and wiggle as much as the covers and the constricting robes allowed him. Inzilbêth felt a warm tear trail down her cheek, but she did not bother wiping it away for fear of hitting him with her elbow by mistake. _He loved her, too_. And, how wouldn´t he? He was her son. She was his mother, who would give him everything she posessed, lavish all her care on him from dawn till dusk, and protect him against the most terrible things in the world.

For the first time in her life she felt full, and brave.

Carefully picking him up, she laid him across her chest, and began humming an Elvish lullaby that her own mother had taught her as a child.

o-o-o-o-o-o

"Congratulations, my lord prince."

"Congratulations, my lord."

Gimilzôr mumbled something that wasn´t quite at the height of his usual diplomatic speeches, and passed by the group of courtiers in the direction of his own private garden. He felt so overwhelmed, and torn between contradictory emotions, that he thought it a miracle that he had managed to say anything at all.

As soon as he reached his only sanctuary of solitude, he forgot for once all his apprehenshions about what was proper, and sat upon the grass, soiling his garments. Then, he shut his eyes tightly, and let go of a deep sigh.

As of today, he was a father. His wife had given birth to a male heir, a little child with the eyes of the lords of Andúnië. The very moment that the bundle had been offered to him in that dark room full of sweat, blood and screams, the King´s son had finally seen what he had never been able to see in his wife before: the eyes of the enemy staring at him in his own house. And this while at the same time, the love of a father drew him inevitably towards the tiny child in the midwife´s arms.

Would he be ever free of the shadow that he had introduced in his life? Would he be allowed even a small measure of happiness, of unambiguous, unstained love for a single being in his world? His father, his wife, now his son... between them there would always be mistrust and guarded thoughts, and a secret, unvoiced resentment.

Gimilzôr took a deep breath, appalled at his own emotions. He had endeavoured through the years to get rid of them, only to find over and over that there was some rebellious need that refused to die. His wife he could keep at an arm´s length, young and innocent and beautiful as she was. But his child! His own son, his heir, the baby who did not know yet how to speak, how to fear and how to hate, and who would grow to learn how to take his place in time!

Before he had been consecrated to Melkor and Astarte, the new royal prince had been brought to the Seer, who inhaled the sacred herbs deeply and scrutinised the small, wiggling bundle for a while. Gimilzôr had been watching his features intently, and he had seen a shadow cross them after the trance passed away. Worried, he had pressed him for answers, but the holy man had only said that the child would be King, and refused to speak any further.

After this ominous exchange, the time had come to present the child to the King himself. Ar-Sakalthôr had been shown his grandson for inspection, because Gimilzôr had felt apprehensive about letting his unstable father hold the baby. For a while, the King had simply stared at the child in silence, in front of Gimilzôr and the chamberlain who was holding it, but all of a sudden, it had opened its little eyes wide to stare back at his grandfather. Ar-Sakalthôr´s face had gone deathly pale then. He announced that he would never allow the child near him; then turned back and left a thunderstruck Gimilzôr behind.

_What had the Seer and his father seen?_ Was it the same unease that he felt when confronted with the sharp nose and the sea-grey glance, or was it something deeper, a dark fate that he could not fathom?

_Would his own child turn against him_?

Gimilzôr shivered. He was a religious man, and experienced in the ways of the divinity, and he had always believed that it was impossible to delay or undo the threads of Fate. As a good ruler, he knew that his duty would be to press the holy man to reveal the truth, threaten him if necessary, and act in consequence before it was too late.

As a father, however, he loved his child. And as much as he might try, he could not bring himself to do it any harm. No- it was unthinkable.

The greatest fool is the man who is fooled twice over while thinking himself clever. You were right indeed in this, father, though you are fey! He had thought he had seen, and taken appropriate steps against Eärendur´s schemes, but now it was brought home to him that he had failed to see the true danger. His son, his heir, with his mother´s blood, his uncle´s features and a destiny buried in shadows, and nothing from his father except a claim to that Sceptre that they had coveted for so long.

_No!_ His very being rebelled against this, and he stood up with fire in his veins. For all his life, since he could barely remember, he had been working for the good of Númenor and the lineage of Ar-Adunakhôr. He could not - _would_ not- allow them to trample over all his efforts. If it must be, he would kill all the Elf-friends one by one, or banish them from the island so none of them would ever meet his son. He would raise him to reverence the true gods and the customs of his people, and respect the example of the father whose sceptre he would one day inherit. Not a single soul who worshipped the Valar or knew a word of that accursed Elven tongue would ever come near him.

He was the King´s son. One day, he would be the King, and ruler of the most powerful nation in the world. With that power, even Fate could be averted.

_And it would._

Feeling a strong determination overcome his shaken thoughts, Gimilzôr let his eyes trail over the garden. A ghastly light was beginning to spread over grass, flowers and quietly murmuring fountains. _The goddess is smiling,_ he had been told when he was young and stared in wonder at the magnificence of the full moon. Now, he would rather have thought that she was crying.

Shaking his head, and taking a sharp breath, he turned away from her, and walked back into his chambers.

(to be continued)

**Notes:** First and foremost, I still plan on updating this weekly. I didn´t update last week because I was in Greece on a trip.

Then, I must confess that I didn´t mention in my introductory note that Melkor´s name would pop up in my Númenor so long before Ar-Pharazôn. I find the whole idea of a people who forsakes its ancient beliefs without picking any new ones for centuries- well, ridiculous. Also, "Melkor" (and Uinen) are figures that seem to be yelling at the reader that they belong to the theological conceptions of a certain people in antiquity. It was a good opportunity to show those gods as they once were in real tradition, before the demonisation wrought by Tolkien´s Catholic mind after Sauron´s arrival in Númenor.

**Now, as for the alphabet:** It is assumed in my universe that the Númenoreans not only forsook the teachings of the Valar and Elves, (a purely passive and unbelievable view of things, in this as well as in religion, given what is known about the splendour of Númenor before its fall), but boosted their own culture. For this culture, a support other than the Fëanorian script was needed, and as the greatest proof of what Men were able to do, I chose the Phoenician alphabet. (The Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, Latin and Cirillic scripts came from it, just in case that you choose to view Middle-Earth as an early stage of Earth).

**And as for childbearing age:** Tolkien officially stated in the UT that though the Númenoreans lived longer than normal humans, they grew at the same speed (and once that they reached their maturity, their decay was slowed down for a long time). This means that Inzilbêth as a 17 year old mother is exactly in the same condition as any of us as a 17 year old mother. Which means, that it´s biologically normal.

Still, in the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, concerns about "young marriage" are raised when Gilraen is married to Arathorn. This gave me the thought that, even if biologically it could be done, Númenorean society could frown upon it. Having a longer span of life, they would have grown used to dividing their lives in larger cycles.

Thanks to my readers!

* * *


	5. A Slip

A bit more on Dual Theology. :)

**A slip**

"Your son is here, my lord prince."

The man made a nod, and finished the fig that he had been peeling prior to the interruption. For a second, his glance fell upon the woman who sat next to the small garden fountain, working on an embroidery of silver and purple thread. She did not look up from her endeavours, but her lips curved into a smile.

The boy crossed the porch of the Princess´s gardens, followed by a small retinue of nurses and tutors who stayed at the threshold at a gesture of Gimilzôr´s hand. The exuberance that any six-year old would feel upon stepping out of the gloom of his chambers and meeting his mother was admirably restrained by his father´s presence, and he offered them a formal bow.

"Good morning, son." the Prince said, forcing his usually stiff tone to adapt to the circumstances. Inzilbêth gave her embroidery to her lady-in-waiting and beckoned to the boy, whose resolutions to keep his dignity disolved in a whirl as he rushed towards her open arms.

"Good morning, Inziladûn!"she exclaimed warmly. "Oh, but you look so _pale_! You should not stay so long indoors..."

Gimilzôr coughed, somewhat irritated. He was used to her behaviour –as it seemed, an upbringing in the wilds could not be erased no matter the years-, but questioning his own dispositions in front of their son was an extremely unwise thing. The boy had been born with a potential that no heir to the sceptre could afford to waste in idleness, not as Númenor´s frail peace grew stale and brittle.

And still, as both mother and son sobered and let go of each other, he could not help but feel as if there was something not quite right about his anger. Like whenever those two were together, he had the annoying sensation that he was intruding upon something.

"Father?" the boy asked, realising his transgression with a thoughtful frown. "I am sorry for... running, and for hugging Mother so undignifiedly."

The long and difficult words were spoken calmly and with no hint of a stammer, almost with the inflection that an adult would have given to them. The Prince stared at his son, whose sea-grey eyes were fixed on him, and nodded.

_The little prodigy._ His tutors swore often that there was no child so gifted in the whole of Númenor, and even looking past their flattery, Gimilzôr had to admit that there was something unusual, maybe even unsettling about the child. There had been times when he had found himself trying to guess the true intentions behind his boyish frowns, as if he was facing a courtier or a member of the Council. This always made him feel extremely foolish.

Behind their backs, Inzilbêth nodded proudly at her son´s words, and took her embroidery back to begin disentangling the threads.

"Come here." he commanded.

Inziladûn gave a few steps, until he was close to his father´s chair at the opposite side of the small table. The glance he shot him this time was clearly inquiring.

"Yes?"

Gimilzôr sought for for the most adequate way to start this conversation. Most of the verbal exchanges that he could recall having held in the last month had always started and finished with some matter of governance - excepting a few ones about _roots_ and _vegetables_ , thanks to the King. He had rarely talked to his son, as he detested not knowing what to say.

"Have you studied something of import this week?" he finally chose to ask. Inziladûn´s lips curved a little, and his eyes were suddenly wide and eager. The subject interested him, strange as it would seem for a boy his age.

"I have been learning about the gods of Númenor." he announced. Gimilzôr saw him struggling to keep a further torrent of words on a leash, and for a moment, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. Amused, he signalled him to continue.

"This week I learned about Ashtarte-Uinen, the Queen of the Seas. She is a goddess, fairer than the fairest woman in the world, like the statue at the Temple of the Sea Cave, and crowned in gleaming silver and pearls. At day she sails the Seas, and at night she sails the skies and we see her as the Moon. She protects sailors, and children, and the... love between a man and a woman."

Gimilzôr nodded, slightly impressed. The boy walked a few steps backwards and stared at both his parents now, as if searching for approval. Inzilbêth, however, continued embroidering with a small smile, until Inziladûn finally turned his attention away from her to focus back on his exposition.

"And today I have been learning about Melkor son of Eru, the King of Armenelos. Of how he leads our armies in war upon the lands of Middle-Earth, and takes the people who die with him so they won´t be lost in darkness. And how the Elves and the evil spirits stole his radiant crown by treachery, because they wanted the world to be covered in darkness, but it slipped out of their reach and hung over the skies as the Sun to light our paths by day!"

They are Moon and Sun, Sea and Land, Woman and Man... the child´s song he had been taught when he was his son´s age came back in loose fragments to Gimilzôr´s mind as he heard him speak. Not that Inziladûn would have needed such clumsy rhymes. 

Inzilbêth, however, was not smiling anymore. Could she be feeling jealous?

"Why did the..?" Inziladûn´s question wavered in his mouth and died, as he came back from his excitement to realise that he wasn´t in class with his old tutor or playing with his mother. Feeling unusually lighthearted, Gimilzôr encouraged him to continue. The ruler of Númenor was still enough to answer a child´s question - even if the child was as gifted as this one.

"Why did the Elves want the world to be covered in darkness? Is it because they can see in the dark?"

"The Elves live in another world, under the light of glowing trees." he explained. "On several ocassions, jealous of the beauty and prosperity of the world of Men, they tried to conquer it. The third and last of those times, they headed for Middle-Earth with an army whose extent of power and malice no human or divine eye had ever witnessed. But even then, Melkor did not forsake those faithful to Him. He knew what he had to do, and so, after building a great fire, He threw himself on it. His enemies laughed, but suddenly, in honour of His sacrifice His father, Ruler of All and Creator, spread the flames and created terrible monsters of blood and fire, until the Elves were defeated and their host had to abandon Middle-Earth."

"And what happened to Him?" Inziladûn had been won by curiosity.

"By his triumphant death he conquered the Other World, and thus became the King of the Dead. Now, he sits there waiting for His faithful souls to arrive, and guides them through the right path so they will not be lost to darkness." The Prince paused for a moment. ". Those are the great feats that we celebrate in the February festival, which you will soon attend."

Inziladûn nodded in grave silence, endeavouring to absorb such an important and shocking load of information. Inzilbêth´s lady-in-waiting gave a little sharp cry, upon noticing that her mistress had prickled her finger with the needle.

The boy immediately turned there in anxiousness, but his mother smiled, sucking her injured finger, and signalled that it was nothing important.

"Was this all you were told about Melkor?" Gimilzôr continued, to cover this incommodating moment. Inziladûn mulled over the question, his eyes still darting towards his mother, until he finally shook his head.

"No. I also learned about his favourite animal, the wolf, and the one he hates the most, the dog. There was also a story about that, but my tutor says that it will come in time." The impression of the old man´s voice had come so naturally and unexpectedly that Gimilzôr couldn´t even scold him for it. "And his favourite tree is the dragon tree... but I don´t know what that is."

"Nobody does." The Prince smiled briefly. "It is a tree of legend, with leaves sharp as swords that stand tall and proudly against the sky. Its roots ooze blood when they are cut, because according to a famous story, it grew from the blood of the mightiest of Elvenkings after he, in his folly, dared King Melkor to fight him one on one. He was so strong and canny that it is said that he wounded our Lord´s feet seven times with his sword, but in the end he was shattered by his mace."

"Grond." the boy added mechanically. Then, he smiled. "I would wish to see that tree at least once! Maybe there´s still one in Valinor? All the gods come from that land, don´t they?"

Gimilzôr froze. All the words that he was going to say, and the tenuous ease that had been developing during the conversation fled in a rush as he pressed his lips and sent a piercing glance in Inziladûn´s direction.

"Who told you this?"

The boy had immediately realised that he had said something wrong. His face went pale, but his confusion was soon smothered behind a mask of forced self-aplomb. The expression in his sea-grey eyes became closed, guarded, and Gimilzôr suddenly saw Eärendur standing in front of him with a false smile and a calculating expression upon his features. His stomach clenched.

"I read it on a priest´s old book." he replied with the briefest hesitation. Some of the dusty scrolls that were kept for religious purposes contained dangerous things that he had been forbidden from reading. "I am sorry."

A good attempt, Gimilzôr thought. But behind his back, blood had fled from Inzilbêth´s face, and he knew who was the real culprit.

"Be excused." he told the child curtly. Inziladûn turned towards his mother.

"Come with me, Mother." he whispered, unable to keep his anxiety at bay for any longer. " _Please_."

"Leave." Gimilzôr repeated, so coldly that he would have flinched at his own voice. The lady-in-waiting and two servants who were waiting nearby followed him, with steps that seemed a little too eager for Court protocol.

Somehow, as the boy left, his frozen rage, mingled with rising fear became hot instead, and burned in his chest. Belatedly he realised why: what he had felt while Inziladûn lied to him had nothing to do with the feelings of a father for a son, even a son who had done something that he did not approve of. For a second, he had seen the enemy.

The greatest fool is the man who is fooled twice over while thinking himself clever.

_He_ was the greatest fool.

Inzilbêth sat on her chair, clutching her embroidery as if she was waiting for some stroke of doom. When he turned to give her his full attention, she winced.

"It was not his fault." she mumbled, with a small and rushed voice that he could barely manage to discern. "It was me. I was the one who..."

"I know." he said, in a cold, low tone. Usually, he never raised his voice, thinking it unelegant and demeaning, but this time he needed a great amount of self-control to prevent himself from yelling. There was some thread he needed to hold on to, when everything else seemed to be escaping his grasp.

_Fool._ So much care spent in keeping the child away from distant relatives and old books, while Inzilbêth, young, harmless _Inzilbêth_ , was free to indoctrinate him night and day, whispering on his ear while they played! Now he understood why the child had always kept such an infuriating distance from him –whenever he wasn´t feigning, of course. Had _she_ taught him to feign, too?

This had to end. _Now._

"You will not see my son again." he told her, taking a breath. Before he could turn away, and unsurprisingly, he was held back by a hand pulling his robe. With great reluctance, he turned back to face Inzilbêth´s distressed glance.

"No! Please... not this!" she stammered, choking with her own voice as she knelt on the floor in front of him. Gimilzôr had never seen such desperation cross the features of anyone before, and he had to stop in spite of himself. "Kill me if I... if I have displeased you, but please, not this!"

"You have poisoned his ears with the.. _tales_ of the traitors!" he spat. Saying it aloud helped to increase his fury and his outrage. He remembered Inziladûn´s smile, his eagerness, that had seemed so sincere to him before it all disappeared in a rush.

"It was a mistake! I..." She sought frantically for the right words to say, holding to him at the same time to make sure that he wouldn´t leave. So beautiful, she was, in spite of her features distorted by grief. Beautiful like an Elf... like a siren...

"It was an old wives´s tale... that I remembered from my nurse. It was about a man of Middle-Earth, Tuor, who crossed the Great Sea in a ship. He... he found Valinor, where the Valar lived, and achieved immortality, but it was just a silly child´s tale and I meant no wrong with it. Please, believe me!" Unable to help herself for any longer, her voice shook with a sob. "I swear that I will never tell him a tale again!" 

"And what will come now? Songs?" he asked, sarcastically. "Prayers?"

In spite of his bitterness, however. the flaring heat of his ire was already giving way to rationality, and he gave himself pause to think again. She looked sincere. Oh, yes - she looked sincere, naive, and he had the shameful urge to comfort her and dry her tears and forget that also she, by birth, had been his enemy.

He was so weak. He would lose his bloodline to such an insignifiant woman, and the whole of Númenor to her kin.

_All because he had thought there would be a way to escape his duty. Love, cursed love, an inconvenient attachment in a man of state... a mortal danger in a prince._

Her sobs subsided after a while, and she wiped her eyes with a tenuous semblance of serenity. He expected her to continue insisting, but instead she sought his glance with an intent look upon her eyes. _Almost fierce,_ he thought, wondering what else would a mother do to fight for her child.

The answer came immediately.

"Then I swear... I swear that I will never teach my son any song, tale of prayer that do not sing the praises of the greatest of gods, Melkor son of Eru and king of Armenelos." she said, without a single pause. Gimilzôr, who had never heard her speak the god´s name before, blinked in surprise.

Did her kind care for oaths?

_She is my wife!_

Aye, she was indeed. As Inziladûn was his son by name, and Eärendur´s kin by blood. If he had been aware back then of the power that a young and ignorant girl could hold over her lineage, he would never have had her, not as a hostage, nor as a pretext or an alliance, but it was too late for that now.

It was also too late to do what he should have done back then. Inziladûn was a prince of Númenor in the eyes of the people, his declared heir – his beloved heir, yes, even now, to his greater shame.

Was there anything he could do, in the slippery terrain of misalliances, affections, lies and oaths where his miscalculation, and then his weakness, had thrown him? How could human eyes see through the souls, and reveal her real heart, his son´s real heart to him?

_You chose not to heed the warnings._

The image of the holy man´s unsettled face flashed through his mind. Before Gimilzôr had had the time to recover from the surprise, another vision took its place, of two twin serpents fighting one another over Inzilbêth´s slight, trembling frame. He stood in place, shaken.

He knew what this was.

_There was still a way._

It was the only thing he could do, he realised, in the backslash of that immediate and terrible flash of divine insight. One single thing that could save Númenor and the royal house from this approaching storm – and also, if things went wrong, hasten its doom.

Blood curdled in his veins at the decision that he had to make. For a moment, he wished that he could be nothing but a common man, who knew and cared nothing for the complicated paths that he was forced to tread. But alas- that fate had been denied to him, since the day of his birth in a bed of purple.

"Listen to me, Inzilbêth. I will allow you to see him, but there will be a third person present in all of your encounters until I decide otherwise." he muttered, feeling tired and drained. Without waiting to see the relief in her face, he pulled the piece of fabric away from her grip, and left.

That same afternoon, when Inziladûn bowed in front of him and formally asked for forgiveness for mentioning the Unspeakable Name of the island of the evil spirits of the West, Gimilzôr gave his son a pleasant look, and told him that there was no reason to worry. After the child´s footsteps had waned behind his back, however, the Prince lowered his head, and covered his face with both hands.

(to be continued)


	6. The Festival of the King

A bit more on the subjects that Tolkien disliked the most, plus the POV of the guy who has been getting the short end of the stick so far. Deep and sincere thanks to Aganaphel, for reviewing the other chapters so insightfully.

**The Festival of the King**

"The King has come!"

"He came back from the world of the Dead, and triumphed!"

"Hail the King!"

The sun was already high in the sky, bringing its scalding rays upon the heads of the numerous multitude who dared to brave them on that unusually hot day of late February. People marched in groups, dressed in light, colourful garments and shouting the traditional proclaims.

Seeking the shade of the smaller streets, those that spread across the older part of the city in an inextricable maze, vendors sang their merchandise: sweet figs, cooled in water, pomegranates –the Númenorean apples-, amulets in the shape of Uinen´s outstretched hand, and light hats made of hay. The haunting odours of spices and perfume that had become the particular scent of Armenelos reached Eärendur´s nostrils in waves, bringing a familiar feeling of unease to his heart.

On this morning of the annual festival, as he walked the city towards the temple where he was being expected, he was alone. One of the things he had learned, back when he set a foot on Númenor´s capital for the first time, was that unprotected anonimity was safer than going out of his house as the lord of Andunië with a sizeable escort. He was the enemy here, and would be so forever as far as Gimilzôr was concerned. He could stand in the unholy fumes of the temple a thousand times and watch as many sacrifices to the goodwill of the Dark Foe of the World, and he would still hear the word "traitor" whispered behind him as soon as he turned back

Sometimes, in his darkest moments, Eärendur wondered if there would ever be a justification to offer to his father beyond the Circles of the World for his actions. The fourteenth lord of Andunië, who lived a life of exile, was not the only person in his family who would not have approved of Eärendur´s policies; some were still alive and full of recriminations. But he had understood it clearly –or thought that he had- long ago: away from their sovereign´s sight, they would always be traitors and enemies. They would never know peace, and they would never have the opportunity of speaking the truth in front of the king.

Still, even Eärendur, who through his life had been forced to learn the virtue of patience, was already beginning to see nothing but despair on the road ahead of him. Ar-Sakalthôr had lifted the ban, yes, but any shrewd observer would notice that the King ruled little those days. His son Gimilzôr held the Sceptre in his hands, not in name but in fact, and as long as he was alive none of the Faithful would ever know peace. Through the years, this tyrant was developing the attributes that would turn man into monster –not cruelty or heartlessness, a will of iron or a murderous, bloodthirsty nature, but a penchant for suspicion and fear. A King in perpetual fear was the worst danger for his subjects, innocent or guilty, and no matter what Eärendur´s heart would tell him, his mind would only foresee bleak visions of the future.

The lord of Andunië reached the last step of the stone stairs that led to the summit of the smallest hill of those upon which Armenelos was built, and he paused for a moment. From that vantage point, he could see the enormous bulk of the holy mountain of Meneltarma, towering over the city with its ragged slopes and peaks covered by perpetual snows. Lost in a feeling of religious awe, he closed his eyes for a moment, and wondered sadly at the folly of people who failed to see the true works of the divinity that lay upon their very doorstep, while they rushed in crowds towards a temple built by the hands of man.

"The King has come back from the dead!"

_Your King lies in the Void, and he will never come back,_ he thought, then shook his head and continued his way. At his right, the soft scent of perfume became stronger, and mingled with smells of food as he passed next to the huge marketplace. But today there were no shouts, no crowds of people coming and going with bags of fruit, vegetables and fish. Today, it was the festival of the King of Armenelos, and the smells were nothing but lingering ghosts.

At the other side, upon the left slope of the hill lay the King´s gardens, built by the king whose name was blasphemous. Eärendur had been there often, realising the irony that lay in searching for peace among the running fountains that his enemy and that of the Valar had built, and walking under the shade of the exotic and colourful trees –those with huge trunks and brilliant, unbreakable leaves, or tall like arrows with long and thorny fingers, and the giant red flowers that never died- that he had brought from his expeditions to Middle-Earth. The people remembered him fondly for such acts of civic generosity, but Eärendur kept records of times when the Kings were known among the subjects for themselves, instead of for the splendid parks that they built while sitting in the innermost chambers of their palace.

The king whose name was blasphemous had indeed been the first to be touched by the ominous shadow of fear, that now ran in the bastard blood of his descendence like poison. Eärendur stared in the direction of the Southern Hill, upon which the royal palace lay like a city of its own. Sunlight shone over the magnificent, lotus-shaped pillars wrought in gold and the russet tiles of the roofs, blinding his glance until he had to turn his eyes away, as if he had been looking into the eyes of Manwë himself. But behind that brilliance there were walls and fortifications, and guards, and a host of dependences, workshops, cellars, gardens, courtiers and servants that isolated the King from his city, and enabled him to live without crossing his own gates.

Eärendur continued his march. Pearls of sweat flowed down his brow from the heat of the day, but he could not take his cloak off. The crowd around him was beginning to thicken considerably, as he drew closer to the third and last elevation, the Eastern Hill, where the temple of Melkor had its location. It was a complex compound, crowned by a dome painted in hues of golden yellow, and tall white towers at its sides. Around it, there was a row of houses decorated with glazed tiles of many colours, the home of the priests, and the reddish building of the Superior School of Arts and Sciences, also built by the king whose name was blasphemous.

_So much evil wrought in an appearance of beauty,_ he mused, realising that this could apply to the city of Armenelos as a whole, with its dazzling colours, sweet smells and proud buildings; with its rare trees, its large avenues and small, laberyintic streets, cunningly planned with a slight curve that prevented the gracelessness of the predictable straight line. It unsettled Eärendur sometimes, to see how evil could create beauty in defiance of the teachings of the Valar, and how an insidious sweetness still oozed from the corrupted heart of the first city of Númenor, stealing the heart and enchanting the senses of the most faithful. He remembered clearly the first time that his son Valandil had laid eyes upon the enchantress: after hours of silence, in which no one was able to wrestle a word out of him, he had told his father that even if they had to live ten lifetimes of exile, he would never wish the Wave to destroy such beauty.

Eärendur had not replied, confused as his heart had become through years of thought and pondering. The Wave dream had assaulted his bloodline since the time of their exile, and they had learned to accept that the Creator would not suffer this abomination to continue for long. And yet, his son´s words, in their strong and untainted simplicity had moved him, and he had thought that the day that such a city disappeared from the face of Earth the very stars of Varda would weep.

The avenue of palm trees that led to the temple was full of people, singing songs for their resurrected King and trying to push through the rest of the faithful to have a glimpse of the gates. When had those Middle-Earth heathen cults wormed their way into Númenor through the corrupted Merchant Princes -those bold, ambitious families who had not thought twice about leaving the land of their birth centuries ago, and seek fortune through trade and exploitation in the colonies-, was something that not even Eärendur´s father, master of lore, had known with exactitude, but the king whose name was blasphemous had been the one to give them official character, to serve his own purposes.

A breeze deigned at last to blow over the heads of the multitude, wringing a soft, musical sound from the leaves of the palm trees, and relieved sighs from many. Eärendur pushed his way to a small side gate, about to be crushed a thousand times until he reached a barrier of haughty looking soldiers. Usually he came earlier in the morning, when there were less people around the temple.

"Stay where you are!" one of them yelled at him. He took the cloak away, and a pair of sea-grey eyes stared at them inquisitively. The same soldier who had yelled made a face for an instant, then turned his back to him and left with a signal for him to wait.

Eärendur endured the indignity with patience. Worse was surely to come until he was allowed to reach his rightful place, and at least now the throng had ceased to push around him. He heard whispers behind his back.

As he had predicted, the soldier came back a few moments later, accompanied by one of Gimilzôr´s courtiers. He had probably seen him several times before, and forgotten his face just as many. It seemed to him in ocassions that everybody in that palace shared the same appearance, with rich yet orderly clothes and haughty, expressionless features.

"Excuse me, my lord." the man said in a formal tone, then proceeded to search him for weapons. Once that he was satisfied that he had not been planning an assassination, he allowed him to enter the temple.

The first time that his son Valandil had been forced to undergo this under the searching gazes of the people of Armenelos, he had _not_ taken it well, Eärendur remembered. He, on the other hand, had ceased feeling anything ressembling shame after several years of alternate attendance –probably the first and hopefully the last in his proud family to reach this state of humiliating resignation. _And even he had his own goals._

"Lord Eärendur!"

It was Zarhâd, the lord of the city that lay at the feet of Sorontil, surrounded by several men who proceeded to wash their hands and faces in the ornate fountain of the first courtyard.

"Lord Zarhâd." he replied genially, bowing in greeting. "It has been so long since the last Council meeting. Is your family faring well?"

The other man shrugged. Eärendur almost laughed at his forlorn expression, and not for the first time, he thought that if they hadn´t been forced by the circumstances, he probably would have liked him. He even suspected that Zarhâd might like him a little.

"As usual. My daughter away on her ship. My son trying to rule in my stead without messing things too much while I idle here."

"The joys of alternate attendance." Eärendur nodded with a smile on his lips. Unlike most timid or cunning lords of the court, Zarhâd did not change subject abruptly –and prudently-, but merely shrugged his shoulders and closed his expression a little.

"Well, I do not think it is such a bad idea. My wife is sickly, and the climate of Armenelos does her good. But let us go inside!"

The lord of Andunië nodded, and followed him through the courtyard and into the first gallery, whose shadows blinded him for a moment. The laws on alternate attendance had been passed in Ar-Zimrathôn´s time, but he had always suspected that Gimilzôr had had something to do with them. It seemed his kind of idea, to inflict separation upon families and take lords away from their lands for one year out of two, just so he could feel slightly more at ease about threats of rebellion. And at least the others did not have to suffer the fate reserved for the Lords of the West alone: to leave a hostage in the city at all times, no matter where the lord was or whether the year was odd or even.

The ascension of the narrow, spiral staircase that would bring them to their appointed places in the upper balcony was done in complete silence, and those who had arrived before them were already praying above. Eärendur occupied his place with polite bows of greeting to the others, who barely interrupted their repetitive mutterings to offer him a bow in return.

Downstairs, the great hall was already filled with people, except for the circle around the altar that nobody dared to tread. The holy flames had been kindled, and their fumes reached the dome, darkening it in spite of the efforts of the priests to paint them anew year after year. A dull chant reverberated across the stone building.

Eärendur tried to fight the sombre feeling that always came upon him as he was made to wait thus. He pretended to be muttering something, too, wondering why he cared to pretend when nobody was looking at him. Maybe he did it just to fill his mind with something that was not the vertiginous voices of the male choir, and the suffocation of the fumes, and _Morgoth..._ who wasn´t anywhere where he could hear anything either.

Not before half an hour had passed, the door behind the altar finally opened for the procession of priests, dressed in white and almost translucent gauzes. The chant´s intensity augmented. Inciense was burnt, and the High Priest arrived with the royal family and several men who dragged two confused, spotless black cows.

Further interested, Eärendur leaned slightly forwards to look at his niece and her child. The boy was staring at the comings and goings around him with a mixture of shock and awe –it was only the second time that he assisted to such a ceremony. And it was also, Eärendur thought with sadness, the second time that he saw him since he was presented to the Court as a baby, as Gimilzôr had forbidden him access to his own kin. He wished that the air could be less thick and allow him a better view of the bright, grey-eyed child, the hope and future of the West.

One of the cows mooed loudly, distressed by the fire, and immediately started to struggle in its bonds, trying to kick the men who surrounded them. The High Priest gave orders in a sharp tone, and someone knelt to offer Gimilzôr a knife. Inzilbêth moved out of the shadows like a swift providence, protectively gathering the child in her arms to get him away from the danger.

Eärendur stared at his niece, and froze. At once, he stood up and leaned over the gilded railing, so abruptly that the High Chamberlain and the Lord of the Southwest sent some surprised glances in his direction.

She was gone from his field of vision, again. Alarmed, she walked away from the fire with her son, and Gimilzôr skillfully killed one cow and then the other, after they had been reduced to immobility by ropes and the strength of many arms. The chants changed their rythm as the corpses were given to the fire, in remembrance of Melkor´s sacrifice, and there she was again, walking forwards with hesitant little steps.

_She was pregnant._

There was no doubt anymore, Eärendur realised as he saw the size of her curved belly under the rich garments. The sound of blood rushing in his ears was the only thing that he could hear for a moment, and he needed great efforts to relax and sit back in his place.

o-o-o-o-o-o

_How was this possible?_ How could the worst senseless fear have brought Gimilzôr to this, to invoke ruin upon Númenor and his own family? To forsake his own child and see him as an enemy?

_Inzilbêth does not know anything about this,_ he mused, letting his eyes lie upon her and surprising a furtive hand that stroked her belly. He could be far-sighted at times, yet now, as much as he tried, the only thing he saw in her was the subdued happiness of a mother who hoped that at least this child would be allowed to live at her side.

For a moment, the lord of Andunië´s heart wept for the fate of his niece, whom he had been forced to sacrifice for the sake of a greater good. He had sacrificed himself as well, yes, but _she-_ what could she have known, the day when she welcomed her kinsmen back with tears of joy in her eyes? He wept for her son, too, young and still too naive to understand what went on in the mind of his own father. He tried to curse Gimilzôr, but in the end all he could do was to curse himself.

_No. **Never** despair. _ He had sworn this back when he had been nothing but a child living among exiles in a barren land, and saw the families that had lost faith long ago and passed their miserable existences in the apathy of despair. _I will not despair._ His mind started working quickly.

Everything was not lost yet. The eldest child was at least the heir, no matter what his father did short of killing him. The yet-unborn child could also be female, and the later Kings had forbidden women from taking the Sceptre.

And now it was time for him to warn Inzilbêth, even with a letter that would put him at risk, if it was necessary. She needed to know about the prophecy of the serpents. Whether she had been the one to rouse Gimilzôr´s suspicions or not, whether it had been simply because of her mother´s kinship –but then again, he was having his second child with the same woman, despite the fact that those kings thought nothing of adultery-, or because of something that she had _done_ in innocent carelessness, it wasn´t too late to change the tyrant´s mind. Her unfortunate child had to keep whatever he had left of his father´s love, or they all would be ruined.

The terrible thought crossed his mind that maybe Gimilzôr hated his son not because of his mother, but because of the child himself, for his ill-chosen features and the blood running through his veins. _Because he was like them,_ and Ar-Adunakhôr´s lineage had been defeated by a superior power.

The chants grew louder than ever, in honour of the High Priest of Melkor and the royal family as they exited the hall behind curtains of smoke. A second before the gates were closed after them, Eärendur thought he saw little Inziladûn turn back, and dart a searching stare in his direction as if he knew, somehow, that he was there.

_I am sorry_ , he muttered with fervour, feeling for the first time like he truly was praying.

(to be continued)


	7. A Nightly Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely appalled at this dreadful display of melodrama. I swear it won´t happen again –well... maybe it will. (cough)

**Note:** I am absolutely appalled at this dreadful display of melodrama. I swear it won´t happen again –well... maybe it will. (cough)

**A Nightly Farewell**

_(two days later)_

The young woman lay unmoving, her head upon the pillow. Watching the entrance, she listened intently for the familiar sound of small feet tiptoeing across the corridor.

Soon afterwards, she heard a faint creaking sound, and then a smaller one, sharp and metallic as the door to her inner chambers was clicked shut. Her lips curved into a smile, that grew sad even while she rolled aside to make room for the cold body of a child.

"Come here" she whispered, holding the covers open. Inziladûn accepted the invitation mutely, his expression still full of distress, and pressed against her swollen belly in search of comfort. "What was it?"

A short, tremulous silence.

"It was... that one again." he muttered after a while. "The Sea was coming for me. People were drowning... and I ran, I tried to run faster and faster, but I _couldn´t_!"

"Ssssh." she hushed him, caressing his dark hair. "I have you."

This seemed to calm him to some extent, though his body was still tense minutes later. Since he had been but a baby, he had suffered from an uneasy sleep full of nightmares, and Inzilbêth had blamed the gloom of that palace of cold stone. Most nights, the dreams were so vivid that he dared to brave the shadows of the corridors and the eyes of the servants to slip into his mother´s bed, and she had never had the heart to refuse him before.

She embraced him, forcing a painful knot down her throat.

"What´s the matter, Mother?" he asked. Realising that he had noticed her distress with that precocious perceptiveness of his, Inzilbêth shook her head as she could.

"Nothing, my dear."

"Is the baby hurting you?"

Her tears almost turned to a choked laugh.

"Of course not. It is sleeping too, at this hour of the night!"

"Lady Masra says that babies do not eat or sleep until they are out."

"Lady Masra is wrong. Babies sleep in their mother´s womb."

Inziladûn fell silent again at this, and Inzilbêth assumed that he was pondering the matter with a frown. She wiped her eyes with the hand that was not holding him close.

_What would she do when he was not there anymore?_ She remembered the dreary months when she could only approach him under the vigilant gazes of her husband´s servants. His nightmares had become worse than ever, but he had stopped asking her for songs and tales. Even today, the child she was holding in her arms was not the same that she had left in that garden with his father, and this had caused something like a small, persistent wound to grow in her heart.

Of course, that would not be the matter any longer. She held him a bit closer, and shivered.

"Mother, you are hurting me."

"Sorry." she mumbled. He pulled some inches away, until he was able to distinguish her face in the soft glow.

"I do not want the baby to be born."

Inzilbêth´s eyes widened, and she sought his glance. He was looking intently at her, ever so formal, so serious.

"Why... not?" she asked, weakly.

"Because people say that he will be heir instead of me, and that Father will cast me out when he´s born."

Inzilbêth forced herself to smile, even as the weight of the letters scribbled by a kinsman on a piece of parchment crushed her heart and chilled her soul. The sound rang hollow, almost like a choke.

"This is nonsense. You know that your father loves you, don´t you, dear?"

Inziladûn´s face showed no signs of reassurance at her words. For a moment, a look of raw uncertainty crossed his eyes.

"I don´t know." he mumbled. Inzilbêth embraced him again in silence, wondering how much he had been able to gather- how much had his sharp glance been able to perceive on its own.

As he laid his head over her belly, one of her hands broke carefully free again, and it sought the familiar warmth of the jewel hanging from her neck. Her eyes closed while she allowed its comfort to seep through her distress –oh, how she wished that time would stop forever in that very moment.

But it didn´t, and a mother could not bring further ruin upon her child.

"Inziladûn... I have something important to tell you. Listen to me with attention."

Surprised at his mother´s change of tone, the boy stiffened again. His hands grabbed at her nightgown, in an instinctive impulse that made Inzilbêth think, for the madness of a moment, that he had already guessed what she was going to say.

"Because of this child, I will be... sick for a while." She swallowed. "You will... not be able to meet with me, Inziladûn."

"How long?"

The Princess forced herself to inhale a large gasp of breath. She had to be strong.

"I... do not know. But you... must not seek me. Do you understand?"

The hands grabbing her nightgown strengthened their grip, as the boy looked up and sought her features. Before she could even have had the time to look away, Inzilbêth felt herself sized up, pierced like she had never had been before by the eyes of anyone. In her shock, she smothered a gasp, and flinched.

The boy, however, said nothing. He simply looked.

"Do you understand, Inziladûn?" she repeated, trying to regain her composure and some measure of authority. He did not nod, nor shake his head. She began to grow frightened.

"Inziladûn..."

"Will you tell me a tale, then?" he interrupted her. "Because I won´t be coming for a while?"

For a moment, she blinked in incredulity –sighed in painful relief-, and then tears welled upon her eyes, and she could not see anything in front of her anymore.

"I will." she answered as well as she was able, nodding many times. "I will."

Inziladûn´s grip froze. Slowly, she felt him take his hands away, retreating some inches further. Wiping her tears again with a furtive swipe, she sought his expression, and froze in turn.

He was crying. Shaking in silence, with his cheeks full of tears that gleamed under the pale light of the moon.

"Then, it´s true." he sobbed. "You will never see me again."

"Inziladûn!" she cried, then smothered her voice in sudden fear of someone listening behind the shadows. She tried to gather him in her arms again, but he pulled away from her, and sat upon the edge of the bed.

"You must... understand." she implored, willing her voice to sound calm and her tears to stay, even though her heart was breaking. "You are your father´s heir. You belong with him, not with... me, and my child´s tales. You are older now, Inziladûn." A sob betrayed her. "Forget about me and pursue your destiny. Learn to be a king of Númenor, and make me proud."

"No! I do not want to understand!" he shouted. "And I do not want to be a king of Númenor!"

"Hush!" she cried, listening for noises on the adjoining room. _If Gimilzôr found him here..._ she thought, trying to grab at the last straws of normalcy until the terrible realisation dawned upon her that nobody would be able to take her son from her again, because she had sent him from her side herself.

Unable to keep her feelings at bay any longer, she bowed her head, and her body shook with wrenching sobs. The boy stared at her in silence, but when she grabbed blindly at him he did not pull away.

"I love you. "she whispered on his ear. "I will always love you, more than anybody else in the world. Never forget this."

He accepted the declaration in silence, clutching her nightgown again. Inzilbêth felt a painful pride stir inside her aching chest, at her little child that understood everything like an adult.

And yet, she realised through the blur of her own tears, he was still crying like a little child.

"Come, now." she muttered brokenly, lying over the mattress again. "I will tell you the tale. I promised... remember?"

Inziladûn let himself be manouevred again without offering any resistance. As his own body touched the mattress, however, he suddenly wiggled away from her grasp, jumped from the bed, where he stopped for a moment to look at her –and disappeared into the shadows.

* * *


	8. Interlude I: Hopes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this puts an end to the introductory arc, I guess. Heartfelt thanks to those who are still following this, I promise that your patience will be rewarded much better next time!

**Note:** So this puts an end to the introductory arc, I guess. Heartfelt thanks to those who are still following this, I promise that your patience will be rewarded much better next time!

**Note II:** Translation of the quote mostly mine- excuses for ineptitude, I guess.

**Second Arc**

**Interlude I – Hopes**

" _And Zeus said to Helios: "Do you see this child? (...) He is your son. So swear by my Sceptre and by yours that you will care for him above all things, that you will protect him and cure him from disease. For you can see how he is covered in smoke, dirt and cinder, and there is a risk that the fire you once put in him will be quenched, unless you show yourself in full might. I will help you, and so will the Fates. Take care of him, and raise him."_

_Upon hearing those words, King Helios felt joy, and happiness at the creature. He discovered that in him still lay a tiny spark of himself, and from then on he protected the child from afar, saving him from bloodshed, the angry mob and the massacre. And Father Zeus told also Athena, the virgin born from no mother, to tend to the small child together with Helios._

_Once that the boy grew up, and became a young man whose first beard was beginning to show, and whose age was the most enjoyable, understanding the legion of evils that had infected his house and kinsmen he was about to throw himself into Tartarus, horrified at their magnitude. But Helios, in his goodwill, together with Athena the Protectress, plunged him into a a deep sleep that dissuaded him from the idea; upon waking, he retired in solitude. He found a small rock where he could rest, and examined his heart to find a way in which he could escape such great evil, for in that moment he felt as if everything was filled with malice and there was nothing good in the world. Then, Hermes, who thought of him as a kinsman, showed himself to him in the shape of a young man of his same age, greeted him kindly, and said: "Come here, for I will guide you through an easier and smoother road, once that you have crossed this steep and craggy region where all men stumble and retreat. "_

_And the youth began his travel, filled with piety, and carrying with him a sword, a shield and a spear, though his head was bare. Trusting Hermes, he advanced through a smooth and untrodden road, wholly purified and filled with magnificent fruits and flowers, all which the gods themselves loved, and trees covered with ivy, laurel, and myrtle."_

(Flavius Claudius Julianus, " _Against the Cynic Heraklios_ ")

\----------

_Year 3062 of the Second Age – 30th year of the reign of Ar-Sakalthôr_

His father leaned back with closed eyes, laying the letter back on his table. There was the distinct sound of creaking paper, and then a small breath, like an almost inaudible sigh.

"Father." he muttered, advancing a step towards him.

The older man gave a vague nod of acknowledgement, but did not move.

"How is she?" Valandil asked. Eärendur shook his head, and his son could see a brief flicker of sadness cross his features.

"She lives."

Valandil reached his side, extending a comforting hand to lay it on his shoulder. Long ago, they had argued –so fiercely that they had even reached the core of each other, and discovered things that usually remained hidden behind stoic countenances and formal smiles. He had seen an unbearable pain cloud Eärendur´s eyes, and doubt and anguish upon the brow of the man who had always led them without faltering.

_Is it necessary?Is it really necessary?_

He swallowed, forcing his stare to meet that of his father.

"It _was_ necessary." he answered his own floating question of years past, in a tone of quiet acceptance. For a moment, it seemed as if Eärendur would show surprise.

Soon, however, his brow unfurled, and his features relaxed slightly.

"He is a fine young man."

"He must have reached his majority by now."

"Aye. Next year he will be twenty-eight."

Valandil nodded, not surprised at his father´s exactitude. He knew that Eärendur followed the young man´s progress avidly from afar, with the full strength of his deep beliefs and hopes for the change, even though he had not been allowed in his presence even once.

And he knew, too, that his father felt in his heart that this situation would not last forever.

"Soon." he muttered.

Almost involuntarily, both sought the Palace hill from their window, letting their glance linger for a while over the Western Wing. Bathed in the light of the setting sun, the lacquered towers and terraces stood proudly upon the brink of the precipice.

Eärendur smiled.

"Very soon."

\-------------------


	9. Last Preparations

**Last Preparations**

Year 3063 –31st year of the reign of Ar-Sakalthôr

_The roar of water was deafening, exploding inside his ears like the rumble of thunder. Under his feet, the constricting pull became stronger and stronger by the moment. He tried to fight it, tried with all his might, but as much as he ran he was always claimed back by the Sea´s giant, gaping mouth._

_Anguish filled his very being, and hair-rising terror. He knew it was drawing close at a fulminant speed, but he could not escape. He could not escape._

_Ahead of him, a woman was also trying to fight the pull of the current. Her hands were white, and a mane of dark hair fell long and free over slight shoulders. He saw her stumble and fall, and rushed to her side, frantically trying to grab her up, to save her at all costs._

_She pulled away from him, and was engulfed by the black waters._

_\----------_

Inziladûn awoke with a start. The first light of dawn was already filtering inside his rooms, yet for a while he couldn´t even distinguish the lines of the dishevelled sheets of his own bed. He was covered in sweat and shivering at the same time; his heart was beating fast.

_The old nightmare again,_ he thoughtAnd yet _not_... no, it had not been exactly the same. That woman- he had seen her before, but never with the same intensity as he had now. She was always running ahead of him, silently refusing to let him see her face. And she had always felt distant and strangely dim, with the unreal quality of dreams, not vivid and almost... physical, like when she pulled away from him this time.

Inziladûn shook his head, and left the bed. The chill of the morning air over the warm humidity of sweat made him feel momentarily cold, but he forced himself to pay no attention. He walked towards the empty terrace, barefoot over the cold engraved figures of the mosaics. The sight of the garden, wild yet luxurious, slowly calmed his mind and helped his throat to unclench.

Long ago, Inziladûn had understood that this nightmare was a part of himself. Nobody else shared it, and nobody knew how to help him with it, but some had told him that it would pass over time, and he knew that it wouldn´t. In further attempts to understand its meaning, he had read books and reflected upon its slightest details and how they changed –until he was told by the only person whose advice he really respected that if he allowed this fruitless search to continue, the dark visions would wreck his day as they wrecked his night. Then, he had decided not to think about them anymore, and banish their horror from his mind as soon as he woke up.

Now and then, he was assaulted by the distant remembrance of a time when two soft arms would encircle him warmly and calm his fears. This always brought pain, more even than the visions themselves.

Inziladûn took a long breath, and returned inside. There was no time for remembrances today. Today was too important, and if things went well, he might even regain a part of what he had lost. But he had to be in full posession of his wits for this.

Soon afterwards, a bleary-eyed man, used to his early habits, came in with a washbasin. He laid it upon the table and left with a bow, used too, it seemed, to his further eccentricities.

Such a noble servant, Inziladûn mused idly as he began washing his face with cold water. His father was a powerful man known as the Provider of Washbasins for the West Wing, or something that sounded just as ridiculous. Both of them would poison him gladly if they could, knowing that the first thing he planned to do as soon as he held the Sceptre was to end this nonsense that had kept growing out of control for the last twenty years. He had certainly been quite vocal about it in the past- and now, the establishment of an uneasy truce did not mean that a lasting peace would ensue.

His father, of course, had been wroth with him, when word reached his ears that his elder son, upon reaching his majority, had refused to admit the twenty-something people that were sent to dress him up in the morning. He had given him a long lecture about how a prince couldn´t insult his subjects this way, about how a prince should be convenably dressed –he could take care of his own body, thank you very much!-, and then finally gave up and resorted to threats. Inziladûn, usually respectful, had shown that he could hold his own in this department, announcing that if he was forced to accept as much as one of them in his chambers, he would appear naked at the next Council session.

_They probably think I go naked already,_ he snorted, already feeling his nightmare dissolve in mist as he threw a plain –but silk- shirt over his shoulders. The contrast between his garb and that of his father and brother was so great that sometimes even _he_ thought he had to be. Maybe it had something to do with the absence of twenty dressing servants trying to make themselves useful around him.

Not long after he was fully dressed, another bleary-eyed Palace minister, a woman this time, came in to leave the breakfast tray. He ate it quickly on the porch, regretting that today he could not do so in the garden itself for fear of soiling his clothes. It would be advisable not to push Prince Gimilzôr´s patience too far, and today of all days he needed his father to be well-disposed towards him.

Once he was finished, he fingered through a book -ship building through the ages- to help pass his remaining time. The idea of the many battles that awaited him, however, had already begun to send hectic impulses to his brain, and he felt unable to concentrate on the dreary technical prose.

Eventually, the hour came. Carefully laying the volume on its place, Inziladûn took out the unavoidable purple cloak, and smoothed out its wrinkles. Then, he left his rooms, to undertake a long journey through the Palace´s thousand corridors towards the Council chamber.

As he was about to leave the Western wing through the Red Flower Gallery, he made sure that none of the ladies who perused the place daily was there to see him, and looked through the varnished lattice in the direction of the sky. There lay the tall North Wing, with its densely curtained windows and walled gardens. The palm tree garden, the only one that could be seen from his vantage point, was still empty, and its inner doors closed. A smile spread through his features.

Quickening his pace even further –to the fright of some Court ladies that he encountered on the way-, Inziladûn entered the Audience Chamber barely fifteen minutes later. There was much animation in the place already, full of gossiping groups, talks and muffled laughs. He saw none of the Council members among this moderate ruckus, however, so he assumed that they had already been given leave to enter the Council Chamber.

Just as he had imagined, some of the most important men in the realm were already taking their seats around the imposing ebony table at the second hall, while others bid their time in conversation next to the chair of some friend or ally. Only a man among them sat alone, serious and silent, at the end of the table that stood farther from the entrance. It was Valandil, son of Eärendur, and the Council representative of the lords of Andúnië this year.

Inziladûn waded through the chief courtiers, governors, priests and landholders of Númenor, answering politely to their greetings though the inner, wilder part of him soon became tired of the slow formality and repetition. When he finally reached his rightful seat, he could not prevent himself from letting go of a brief sigh of relief, and Valandil, who sat close to him, allowed a smile to curve his grim features for a moment.

Inziladûn mumbled a greeting, so shocked at his own carelessness that he even forgot about the condolences that he was supposed to offer for his kinswoman´s death. A bit red on the cheeks, he began arranging the sheets of paper and writing material in front of him, to make sure that they would be handy as soon as he needed them.

Being his father´s secretary was harder than what it seemed at first sight. The Council rarely went past one or two decisions per session, and many words were repeated over and over under slightly different disguises. If he had been allowed to, Inziladûn would have resumed everything in one brief, neat paragraph, but unfortunately this was not the Prince´s preferred method. Gimilzôr expected him to note down every word exactly as it had been said, and to record even the name of the person who had said it. Sometimes, Inziladûn wondered if his father spent his afternoons staring at the papers with a frown, trying to decide if each choice of a word meant treason or not.

Just as he was trying to banish this irreverent image from his mind, he heard a sound of footsteps coming from the Northern door, and immediately stood and bowed. The conversations at the other side of the hall froze to a halt, as the Council members followed his example to honour the arrival of Gimilzôr.

The Prince sat at the head of the table, next to his son, and offered them a carefully studied wave of his hand.

"Sit down." he commanded. Inziladûn obeyed, sending a passing glance in his father´s direction.

As every other day, whether he was going to make a public appearance or not, the Prince was dressed quite elaborately. His purple cloak fell down his back in careful folds, and his dress was made of a dark velvet that made a perfect contrast of hues with the dark golden trimming. Long, black curls fell down his back in seeming freedom, but at a close distance Inziladûn was aware that they had been treated with an oily product that would keep them in place under the fiercest wind. _And dyed in brilliant black so the first signs of silver do not shine through,_ Inziladûn thought, as always marvelling at such vanity.

For a second, his gaze crossed his father´s stony, regular yet fleshy features, the dark eyes and the frown in his pale forehead, but he tore it away before Gimilzôr could notice. The Prince was tense in the midst of his artful majesty, worried about something.

Inziladûn did not need to think too hard to guess why his father was worried. The thought that he might go back on his word and forbide him from travelling crossed his mind for a moment, bringing a pang to his stomach.

_That was unthinkable._

A few minutes passed by in tenuous silence, with some sounds of talking in low tones coming from the other side of the table. As Gimilzôr did not move, and his frown increased and turned into a sign of a less deep kind of irritation, Inziladûn became aware of the empty seat at his father´s other side.

Finally, the creaking sound of a huge door being opened and then closed brought everybody´s attention towards the entrance. Gimilzôr glared at his newly arrived younger son, who apologised without looking much embarrassed.

"You are late."

Gimilkhâd walked towards his seat, among the mostly amused looks of the Council members. Inziladûn, who would have felt _very_ ashamed had this happened to him, could not help but shake his head, but his brother did not even look in his direction. Careful, so the fabric of his clothes would not get a wrinkle, he sat down with a high chin, a perfect copy of their father in all except the youth on his face and his braided hair.

It had been a new idea of Gimilzôr to allow– _force_ would have been a better word- his twenty-year-old son to assist to Council sessions, so he could start learning the skill of conducting government affairs. Inziladûn, so far, had not noticed any progress, as his brother spent the whole time learning how to stare convincingly at the speaker while his thoughts wandered away. And then, there had been those rumours of a new woman of late...

How could any woman love a man who spent more time on his hair than she did? 

Inziladûn bit his lip, wondering why he always had to be so harsh towards Gimilkhâd in his thoughts. They had been born from the same womb, and yet they had not grown up together –while he had been taken to the Western wing, as the heir, his brother had been entrusted to the care of a lady who had rooms on the South wing of the Palace.

The first time that they had actually spoken to each other, he remembered, they had been at their father´s gardens. Gimilkhâd had approached the bench where he sat reading a book, and began staring at him in awe. Inziladûn was nonplussed at the dark-eyed little boy´s lack of manners, and closed his book to look back at him.

Gimilkhâd was frozen in place, though soon his curiosity managed to overpower his wariness. Bravely, he hid his trepidation behind a cheeky mask, and decided to stand his ground.

"Can you really... see what I´m thinking?" he asked.

Inziladûn flinched. He hated it when people said that. He couldn´t _see_ anybody´s thoughts, like some sort of Elf sorcerer... anyone could guess at the faces of people who did not bother to hide their emotions.

"Your eyes are obvious enough." he replied. Years after, as he thought about it, he wondered if it had been the nicest thing that he could have said.

In any case, as they had both grown and they had further ocassions to talk, he had always felt remarkably unable to show any affection, and Gimilkhâd had not tried again. As a boy he had fled him, and he still did, if under a less conspicuous guise –instead of keeping a distance whenever they met in public, now he preferred to cloak his uneasiness under a display of arrogant exuberance. This attitude had endeared him to their father, the ladies and the courtiers, but Inziladûn found it overdone, a too magnificent wrapping to hide a petty fear.

Years ago, he had learned that a Númenorean father had to feel seriously disappointed to have a second son, and that in the King´s family this was unheard of since centuries ago. Not much else had been needed to realise where he stood in the family, but he had never been able to nail the real reason why he was such a disappointment. All that he knew was that he displeased the Prince and the King, and Gimilkhâd did not.

"... session we will discuss our policies towards our Middle-Earth colonies."

Gimilzôr´s voice took Inziladûn out of his musings, and he automatically started scribbling. And for the next hours this was all that he did, quietly grumbling at the need of so many words to say so little. The King would send inspectors to oversee the works of Umbar, but maybe it would be best to wait until it was time for the desert tribes to pay their tributes. Or not, because then there would be too much to do to lose time in overseeing petty repairs. The Merchant Princes would certainly not object to a delay. And, by the way, what of the latest rumours of barbarian incursions...?

When Gimilzôr decided to put an end to the session, Inziladûn´s fingers felt entirely numb. Relieved, he walked towards the door of the Audience Chamber, where Valandil approached him with a bow.

"Looking forward to tomorrow morning, my lord?"

Inziladûn blinked, taken by surprise.

"I should have told you before." he apologised, as soon as he could gather his wits. Looking at the older man, however, he was unsettled by a glance of pure, amused serenity, and he almost felt foolish saying the formal words. "My deepest condolences for your noble grandmother´s sake. It was a tragedy."

Valandil smiled.

"It was sad, but hardly a tragedy, my lord. She was of very advanced age, and in the right state of mind. Now she has left for a better place." he added, though there his voice became so low that even Inziladûn had problems hearing it.

Still, his lack of despair was quite genuine, the Prince´s heir realised in shock. No trace of tears, of a sleepless night, no hidden anguish showing in his countenance when the name of the one he had lost to Darkness was mentioned in front of him.Was his father right after all, in thinking that the Lords of Andunië were soft-spoken and unfeeling?

"I have already prepared everything that we will need for our journey, my lord." the sea-grey eyed enigma changed subject with perfect composure. Inziladûn saw his father and his brother walking in their direction, and suspected this to be the reason. Tomorrow´s shared trip was a safe, impersonal subject to breach in front of Gimilzôr.

"I fear I will not be allowed to do as much as taste your bread, Lord Valandil." he took the cue in a conversational tone. The Prince, who had already reached their side, arched an eyebrow.

"And why, pray, would there be such a ban on our friend´s food?" His undertone was clear, _do not leave me in evidence._ Inziladûn smiled pleasantly as the other man bowed low.

"Because the King and the Prince would not allow the magnificence of the Royal House to be outstripped by anyone." he said. Gimilzôr´s features relaxed a little.

"I plan on sending a sizeable entourage with you, indeed." he admitted. "In your return way, you will visit the Sacred Cave and present your respects in our stead."

Inziladûn nodded. To have him take over the Royal family´s responsibility of the annual visit to the Sea Queen´s sanctuary had been his father´s way to make sure that his formal condolence visit to Andustar would not last for a day longer than necessary. This, on the other hand, was no heavy burden for him- he had been wishing to visit that place since his childhood.

"And how will he do this, Father? Not even the sacred prostitutes will let him in until he shaves and does his hair properly!"

Gimilzôr frowned at his younger son´s occurrence, though Valandil smiled out of courtesy. Inziladûn briefly pondered the childishness of telling Gimilkhâd that braids had been an Elvish invention.

"I would wish that you _did_ do your hair properly, Inziladûn." Gimilzôr said, "but if you act with the required dignity, I shall be content enough. Now, follow me; the hour of prayer is near at hand."

All three bowed and fell behind Gimilzôr, and they were followed in turn by the Council members who still exchanged the last impressions nearby.

\----------

The subterranean chapel of Ashtarte-Uinen was dark, except for the faint light of torches than hung from the irregular, humid walls. Centuries ago, delvers had found a water well under the very courtyard of the royal palace, and the place, small and damp like a woman´s womb, had become the rightful home of the goddess soon afterwards.

Inziladûn stumbled in the shadows, blinded for a moment, and set his eyes on the small statue at the front. The Queen was holding a child, whose little hands played with her naked breast. Quietly, he sat down next to Her, and began his prayers while the movements of the people behind him, and of his own father as he burned inciense at the altar became nothing but a meaningless buzz in the distance.

_"Queen of the Seas, silver foam, radiant moon..."_

The goddess´s serene, loving smile gleamed under the torchlight. Since he had been a child, Inziladûn had liked to believe that She was smiling for him, a mother whose love was too large and powerful to be imprisoned between cold walls.

_"...Mother of all, hold me in your arms, protect me..."_

Lost in his whispered communion with the Lady, he almost jumped with a start when he felt a hand touching his shoulder. Managing to regain his composure in time, he smothered an irrational feeling of cold and disappointment as Gimilzôr´s dark eyes looked down on him.

"Follow me." he said. Inziladûn nodded, and with a last, longing glance at the sanctuary, he stood up and left the cave at his father´s heels.

\----------

The long and laborious ascension through steps carved in stone helped him to return to the reality at hand. Blinded again at the end of the journey, this time by sunlight, he blinked, and saw his father waiting for him with his entourage.

Once that he had taken his rightful place, the whole retinue crossed the centre of the courtyard, cloaks billowing with the soft action of the breeze. At their right stood the White Tree, once the main ornament of the oldest square in Armenelos, before the enlargement of the Palace in Ar-Adunakhôr´s time had reduced it to a mere obstacle in the First Courtyard of the Main Compound. Inziladûn had read that the extraordinary tree was of Elvish origin, and that the kings of the past who were friendly with the Elves had planted it as a symbol of their alliance. He had immediately believed that story: that tree _had_ to be Elvish, if only because it roused strange and unknown emotions on him whenever he gazed at it. It made him feel sad.

Others, however, he had soon discovered, were greatly afraid of it. None of the two thousand people who lived in the Palace ever walked its immediate vicinity, and though Inziladûn´s tutor and friend Maharbal had told him that those were old woman´s legends, not even the Umbarian philosopher had allowed the curious child to step too close.

Turning away from the dangerous thing, he followed his father back into the Main Compound and into the Prince´s own chambers, where everyone else was dismissed. There, he found that a table set for two was already waiting for them in the parlour.

"Sit down." Gimilzôr invited. Inziladûn obeyed, and, knowing his father well enough, he was not surprised at the long silence that followed. Feeling his hunger awaken, he fell upon the excellent meal, and put each dish away with quiet shows of appreciation. Gimilzôr detested any kind of talk at the dining table.

Only after he had wiped his mouth with a scented napkin for the last time, the Prince leaned back, and cleaned his throat.

"Inziladûn." he began. His son nodded, immediately taking his eyes away from the man who was picking up his father´s dishes. "You must know that neither the King nor I feel at ease about sending you to the Western lands for this condolence trip. We would have sent anyone else if it had been possible –but unfortunately, it was not. It would be a sad insult for our majesty to go ourselves, and you are our heir and kin to them."

Inziladûn cleaned his throat in turn. _This meant that there would be no further risk of a last-minute counter decision._

"I understand. And I will do my best to be at the height of your expectations."

Gimilzôr shook his head, and let go of the softest of sighs.

"You know what I have told you so many times. Those people are cunning and deceitful. They will try to entice you with their charming manners, to lure you with fantastical tales about this island´s legendary past. You are intelligent, my son." Inziladûn bowed slightly at the unexpected compliment." But you are also impetuous, and entirely too impressionable." A shadow came upon Gimilzôr´s features, and for a moment, his son surprised a look that was entirely too vulnerable in his eyes. Posessive... _or frightened?_

Before he could guess which, however, Inziladûn had to lower his head, and force himself to follow the colourful patterns of the mantelpiece. He knew better than to stare at his father in this manner. Since he grew enough of a brain as to remember, Gimilzôr had taken his son´s piercing stares very ill.

For a while, a heavy silence fell upon them. Then, the Prince broke it with the most agitated tone of voice that Inziladûn could remember.

"You are my son, Inziladûn. My son and my heir. I must trust you."

Inziladûn´s eyes widened in shock.

"I have never given you a reason to believe otherwise!"

But then, even as he pronounced those words, he knew that this was not wholly true. Ever loyal, mostly obliging, Inziladûn´s thoughts were his own, and even now he was planning something that his father would not like.

_And still,_ he thought, there were no charming manners that could make him forget his obligations towards the Royal house of Armenelos.

"I will serve the King and you to the best of my abilities." he swore, for once openly locking his father´s eyes into his. Gimilzôr stood the sea-grey glint for a moment, then frowned and shook his head as if to free it from an unwelcome thought.

"You may leave and finish your preparations." he dismissed him.

Inziladûn bowed.

\----------

The rest of the afternoon passed away comparatively quickly. Inziladûn had to devote it to the last preparations for his journey, and in spite of the fact that he was not carrying much for himself, long and tedious lists of presents for the Sacred Cave and for the grieving family kept him busy for a long time. His escort, moreover, had a new leader as from the previous day, his old chief tutor Hannon, priest of Melkor. He had been picked by his father, no doubt with strict instructions to report on all his sayings and doings, and as if this wasn´t hardship enough for Inziladûn, the wretched man had immediately insisted on bringing four carts of "provisions" and a train of twenty-five personal servants with him.

Once that he could say that everything was packed and in its rightful place, the Prince´s heir retired to his chambers, early, he said "so he could be fully rested for tomorrow´s journey", but in truth because the time was near to carry the plan that he had been carefully mulling for the last days. As he closed the door behind his back, a familiar restlessness began to prey on his mind and body at the vicinity of both risk and reward, yet he forced himself to pick a book and wait until the hour was late enough.

Finally, the hour came. Leaving the book aside –from which he could not even recall the title-, Inziladûn slipped away from his chambers, and walked through the shadows of the already deserted corridors. The Red Flower Gallery was empty, with the exception of a lingering couple who fled through a side arch, more worried about being detected than they were of tracking his movements. In silence, he crossed it, and passed by a fountain of golden fishes to enter the garden of palm trees.

_The first step in forbidden territory,_ he thought, and the idea caused an unknown emotion to twist around his stomach. He had rarely felt afraid of anything, but what was at stake now was not a mere trifle. For a moment, the full awareness of the risk even caused him to consider abandoning the enterprise.

But he couldn´t. It was too important. For twenty years he had waited, crafting impossible plans and learning to calculate directions, angles and distances, and now, at the eve of a journey where many questions could find their answers, it had finally become possible. This had to be a sign of the goddess, Inziladûn was sure.

Remembering to utter a prayer demanding Her succour, he eyed the house that stood at the far end of the garden with a critical glance. It was the back wall, of course, as the front belonged to an inner courtyard of the North Wing, but it had a window that allowed the lady who lived there to look at the palm trees without having to show herself to the eyes of lesser courtiers. It was the home of the Lady of the Northern Keys, who, after a lifetime of faithful service, had left the Palace this month to look after her mother.

Inziladûn grabbed the bars, testing them at the same time, and pulled until his right foot could reach the windowsill. Then, he hoisted himself up, and stood tenuously upon the narrow space.

In that position, his outstretched hands could find support on the lower part of the roof, and he tiptoed and stretched all that he could to be able to grab a safer portion of it. As he balanced over, trying to land one of his legs on the heights, he knocked the wall a couple of times. In spite of knowing that the house was empty, he felt himself cringe at the noise.

Once that he managed to roll his body over the cold tiles, he lay there for a while, recovering from his exertions and the dull ache in his hands. After a few minutes, however, he forced himself to stand up again, and began climbing the bent surface of the roof to the highest place. From that vantage point, he could already steal a first peek at the inner courtyard, at its fountains and terraces, and yet what absorbed his attention was the building that hung above his head.

For that would be the scenario of the most dangerous stage of his plan. Since years ago, Inziladûn had been digging up childhood remembrances, arranging and rearranging them with his own calculations, and decided that the terrace at the back of her rooms had to be exactly there. But a shadow of a doubt still ate at some corner of his mind, and he wondered if he could have been betrayed by a child´s overactive imagination. One less turn, one less stretch of the dark corridors that looked so frightening after a nightmare...

Discarding those dangerous thoughts at once, and muttering a new prayer, Inziladûn tested the solidness of the lush plant that climbed over the stone wall, under its fragrant flowers that showed their full beauty only at night. Most of the stalks were still too young, and unable to support the weight of a grown man, but in his increasingly desperate search, he found their mother: a very ancient stalk that had almost become one with the stone that supported it, wider than his arm and running in zigzag until the balcony was at reaching distance. It was dangerous, but he could do it.

The climbing, in spite of his fears, did not present too many problems. Inziladûn was careful never to look down, and he followed the same stalk patiently instead of being lured towards a more treacherous support that promised a shorter path. Now and then he felt a minor debris of twigs, leaves and flowers fall over the roof of the absent Lady of the Northern Keys, at each minute farther away from his feet.

When at last he could touch the marble railing of the balcony, he almost let go of a cry of triumph. Hurriedly, he hoisted himself up again, and sought the new surroundings with an avid glance.

He saw a porch covered in boughs, filled with blooming, sweet-scented white flowers. One small fountain reflected the silvery gleam of the moon over running waters. A feeling of peace, that Inziladûn only recalled from his dreams, pervaded the place, filling him with a strange urge to weep.

His conscious mind remembered that fountain among all others, the one where he had fallen as a child as he tried to catch a slippery fish with his hands. And deeper inside, his heart recognised this calm quiet, ever unchanging and ever mysterious, that he had sought and never found in the shifty, complicated and noisy world outside. A strong feeling of loss gripped at his heart with a numbing intensity.

_He was home_.

Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, he walked the garden paths towards the porch, and knocked softly at the locked door. She was there, lying on her bed like the last time that her small son had sought her in this place. He knew. Nothing he had done or experienced in the last twenty years had truly _happened._

After a while, the sound of soft footsteps approaching in some hesitation reached his ears. He swallowed; his heart was beating quicker than ever.

Once again, he repeated the knock. He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other side of the door.

"Princess" he whispered, barely loud enough for her to catch his words. "I am your son."

For a moment, even the soft sound of her breathing was quenched. Then, there was a quick fumbling for something and a sharp click, and the door slid open revealing a pair of huge, incredulous grey eyes.

"Inziladûn?" she asked, with a little sharp cry. He laid an instinctive hand upon her mouth.

"Ssssh. There must be people in the front. They must not hear me."

Inzilbêth nodded. As if she was dancing in a trance, she stumbled backwards, until she fell upon an ivory chair. Inziladûn´s eyes distinguished the shape of a lamp on the small table at her side, and with trembling hands he sought for the lighter. The soft flicker of the flame revealed to him a pale oval face, whose features were contorted in an expression that he found hard to decipher, a turmoil of disbelief, fear and longing.

Sure that his own face mirrored her feelings, he took a step forwards, and swallowed the knot in his throat. Her hand darted up and touched his cheek tentatively, as if she wasn´t sure that he could be real.

A smile creased her lips, and a tear flowed down her cheek.

"Inziladûn... You-you have grown so much! But... to come all the way here..."

"I had planned it carefully. The Lady of the Northern Keys was on leave, and tomorrow I will be leaving, so I thought there would be no better opportunity." he babbled, appalled at his own tone. The smile disappeared, cloaked by sadness and guilt, and she stared at her feet.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry... I tried to... but would you believe me if I tried to... _tell_ you why I did it? Would you understand...?"

Inziladûn forced himself to look into her eyes. Prey to her real emotions, to her grief and love for him, she was much fairer than the Princess who stood away from him in formal ceremonies, her body covered in silks and jewels and a vacant expression upon her eyes. And yet, she was so small... had she been so small, before?

"I would." he said, grimacing as a painful memory fought its way into his mind. "It was Father, was he not? Back then, he said that it had been a good idea. I always knew it had been him."

Inzilbêth shook her head, moved.

"No, Inziladûn! It was me... I... I feared that he would grow to despise you. Then, I was pregnant with Gimilkhâd, and I knew... I knew that you would never be in his favour as long as you were _my_ son. I was so afraid that he would harm you!"

Inziladûn knelt on the floor and laid his hands upon her shoulders, trying to calm her down. This movement caused him to be caught in a feeling of unreality –their roles were reversed, and he had found the mother who comforted him only to realise that she had become the child, small and trembling.

Avidly, she grabbed one of his hands with both of hers. Her eyes trailed over its lines, its creases, its new size, and then over his arms and shoulders, his sharp nose, his beard and his sea-grey eyes. Inziladûn suspected that she still believed herself in a dream.

After a while, a laugh broke in her features, soft and full of joy.

"My child!" she cried, sliding down the chair and pulling him into an embrace. She felt warm and smelled good, like the white flower boughs that grew in her garden. Inziladûn felt her hands caress his face over and over, marvelling over each little detail with the hungriness of a lover. Then, she laid her head over his shoulder, and lay there for a while in contentment.

Feeling a strong emotion that prevented him from uttering a word, he pulled her body closer. How many times had he dreamed of her embrace, even as he prayed to the Goddess to hold him in her arms?

At last, however, he had to remember his mission, and with great reluctance he forced his body to tear apart from hers. Slowly, she also pulled herself up.

"Tomorrow morning, I will leave the Palace." he whispered. "I am travelling to Andunië with Valandil on a condolence visit for the death of his grandmother. Father did not want to send me, but there was no other option... and I _need_ to know before I go, Mother." He took a sharp intake of breath, then looked at her in the eye. "Why did Father take Gimilkhâd and me away from you, and what does your kin have to do with it?"

Inzilbêth wiped away the wet traces from her cheek, trying to regain her composure. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if protecting herself from the cold, and smiled weakly.

"My mother´s kin are Gimilzôr´s enemies. They adore other gods, hold a great influence in the West, and he thinks that they want to usurp the Sceptre. You know that. "she said. "Two years before you were born, he allowed them to return from their exile in the East... and married me."

Inziladûn shook his head, baffled.

"I never understood why. Why call them back, why marry you if he detested them so much?"

"Because your father, Inziladûn, fears whatever he cannot control. "she replied with a grimace. "I was a naive girl, almost a child when I married him, and I did not understand, either. But I do now. With Lord Eärendur in the Council, his family in the capital, his most faithful followers in the East and I in his palace, he felt that they would not be able to do anything behind his back."

"A hostage." he guessed, slightly nauseated. She sighed.

"And then you were born... Since the first moment, you looked like my mother´s kin. You loved me, and listened to my tales. Your father ... believed that I was an agent of Lord Eärendur and that I would poison your ears and turn you against him. He decided to have another son, and I was told that this would mean danger for you. So I had to let you go... to protect you..."

Tears gathered again in her eyes, and he tried to comfort her while letting the shocking new piece of information sink inside his brain. So his father had thought that _he_... even as a child, he had viewed _him_ as one of _them_?

An agent of Lord Eärendur...

"Inziladûn..." she began. Her hand sought for something on the surface of the table, but in an involuntary movement she pushed the silver lighter to the floor. A sharp, metallical noise broke the stillness of the night, magnified by her fear and horror.

Inziladûn was the one who reacted first, while she was still paralysed by the extent of her mishap. With trembling hands, he sought for the doorknob, and ran out to hide in the garden. For a while, he crouched behind a tall flowerbed, keeping still and muttering a prayer.

When the door opened again with a creaking sound, he almost betrayed a start, but then realised that it was nothing but Inzilbêth in a white, flowing nightgown. She stared right and left, in growing desperation.

Sighing in relief, Inziladûn crawled out of his hiding place and waved to her. She ran towards him, in such haste that she nearly tripped over the hem of her robes.

"I thought you were already gone." she whispered. He shook his head, though this very movement was wrought with a heavy realisation.

"I must go, nevertheless. "he sighed. "If anyone finds me here..."

Sadness creased her features, slowly turned into resignation and acceptance.

"I... know. I know you must." Nodding several times, as if trying to convince herself, she took him by the hand and walked towards the balcony. "You came by _this_ way? But... it´s so dangerous!"

"And yet, it was the only way. It _is_ the only way." he rectified, looking down and making sure that there was still no one in sight. Even as he was doing this, she threw her arms over him and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Back then, I kept living because I knew that one day I would be able to see you again. "she whispered into his ear. "And now you have grown so much! I am so proud of you..."

Inziladûn swallowed hard. His voice came out hoarse.

"We will meet again. When I come back from this trip..."

"I will wait for you."

Smiling back, with a gesture meant to reassure her, he climbed the railing and sought for the stalk among the thick foliage. As he let his body slide down, he felt immediately bereaved, as if darkness had engulfed him once again.

The last thing that he could hear was her anxious whispers, as she leaned over the balcony to follow his trajectory.

"They are good people, Inziladûn. _Be careful!_ Listen to what they have to say, give them a chance... do not be like your father..."

_I will not,_ he promised, to himself and to her, while he carefully found his way back through plant, roof and window. When he finally felt the ground under his feet, he resumed his walk down the path of the palm trees, his mind lost in a confused turmoil of musings.

For a moment, he thought he had heard something in the distance, like a faint sound of whispering and rustling of robes. But when he sought the arches of the Red Flower Gallery in alarm, everything was dark and silent, and he told himself that he had imagined it.


	10. Andúnië

This chapter is long and probably should have been done better, too. But then again, this whole part was as problematic as it was necessary. Thanks to the readers who have come this far.

Hannon, Valandil, Artanis, Alissha and Melkorbazer are mine, the rest are Tolkien´s. If you have any questions about my take on things, know that you are very welcome to ask them!

**Andúnië**

The trip was long, and unlike anything that Inziladûn had ever experienced. As soon as their horses left Armenelos behind, glittering like white, red and amber gems over the slope of Meneltarma, he already felt like he had entered a new world. Gone were the gardens and streets, the jeweled temples, the markets. In their place, large fields stretched out of his vision, their flawless green barely spotted with small houses painted in white, people who toiled in colourful yet simple clothes, and now and then a village where everybody abandoned their duties for a moment of open-mouthed amazement as they passed by.

This trip was a novelty because of the unusual time of the year and the larger retinue, Valandil told him matter-of-factly on the first day. Inziladûn nodded, still uneasy at the lack of a more grieving reaction for the reason that had brought them to travel. That night, as they both shared a somewhat doughy stew that had elicited a bitter set of complaints from Hannon, he could not help but profit from his old teacher´s absence to satisfy his curiosity. Valandil did not seem offended at his blunt questioning in the least, and, like a man who finds pleasure in satisfying the impertinent queries of a child, he explained to Inziladûn that his family believed that death was no curse, that it brought rest and healing to those that needed it, and that the spirits of the dead crossed the Circles of the World and reached a better place.

He was not able to prove the truth of any of those points to Inziladûn´s satisfaction, but the young man was fascinated by them nonetheless. Later, while he sought a difficult sleep in an alien bed, he thought that the mere belief of a blissful afterlife could, at least, make the lives of Men much more blissful, independently from its proved truth or falsehood. The problem was that nothing but a proved truth would be able to convince a doomed soul to abandon its fears. _And yet, those people..._

As the journey followed its course, Inziladûn´s curiosity grew even further. During their long rides on horseback, so exhilarating for a man who had been caged in a golden palace for his whole life and so stimulating for the boy who had always been attentive to the smallest novelties, Valandil was silent, watching his enthusiasm with a small, grave smile. But at nights, with or without Hannon, he became a pleasant conversationalist, able to arouse their interest on any subject and habile to avoid any controversial topic. The sullen Council member seemed to have been nothing but a ghost created by Inziladûn´s imagination.

_They will try to entice you with their charming manners,_ his father had said, warning him against the dangers that would assail him in this journey. And yet, the longer he travelled with Eärendur´s heir at his side, the more a genuine feeling of respect and liking grew inside Inziladûn´s heart. He liked that elegant gravity, so different both from the noisy exuberance of the people of Armenelos and the coldness of his father. He admired his natural ease at everything that he did and his conversational skills, though a strange feeling of outwordliness assaulted him at times when he realised that nothing was able to make the light in the man´s eyes burn more intense.

On the noon of a beautiful day, their horses trod over the dust of Andustar for the first time. Inziladûn´s wide eyes drank in every single detail of his beloved mother´s childhood home, from the fertile and mysteriously deserted fields of the South to the rocky, ragged peaks of the North, where birds of many kinds built their nests. Valandil´s eyes still did not change, but for the first time Inziladûn saw something similar to a faint glow in them as they rode side by side through his lands. He told his young companion that the Southern lands were deserted because many of the people who used to till them were now in the East. He revealed that the birds who nested on the Northern peaks were friends to his family, and that the Lords of Andúnië also lived on a nest of their own.

This was an enigma for Inziladûn, until they came to border the coast towards Andunië. Their path had been carved in the rock of a cliff, narrow and as dangerous as steep was the fall. A slight misstep of the horse would throw it together with its master to the roaring waters below, so Valandil advised Inziladûn to have everybody step down and continue on foot, including a dismayed Hannon who had probably not walked in his entire life. Experienced as the Western party already were, they also dismounted out of courtesy.

"This is a natural fortress." Inziladûn commented as they made slow progress through the impressing heights. He could not help thinking a bit further: if his father ever made war against them, he could certainly not bring an army by land to attack their capital. In this case it would be their bay, which had brought them such renown in the past, what would become the cause of their ruin.

As they reached the uttermost extreme of the Southern Cape and the bay came in view, however, Inziladûn´s calculations made way to sheer astonishment. For a while, he thought that his eyes had to be deceiving him, but when he asked Valandil if this was the famous bay of Andunië, he received an affirmative answer.

"But the bay of Andunië is no bay!" he exclaimed. Valandil stared at him, half-curious, half-amused.

"Your eye is truly keen, my lord, as they say."

Inziladûn merely nodded, too absorbed at the amazing sight in front of them to pay heed to compliments. Between the Northern and Southern cape, which brought safeguard from the might of the waters, there were three smaller cavities. Those on the left and right extremes held nothing but rocks and water, but the one in the middle was almost entirely covered by a giant stone construction stretching from one of its extremes to the other.

It was a great dock, wrought in stone to build an artificial bay under a cliff that was even steeper than the one they were treading now. Above it, a city was perched on the cliff with its grey stone towers, reached by winding flights of stairs carved on the rocky landscape. To the sailors that came in their ships from afar, it would have seemed at first that there was no life in the place, until they sailed closer and the shapes of city, stairs and port began to draw themselves under their awed eyes.

"This is the Bay and City of Andunië, my lords." Valandil announced, with a fond smile that took a measure of sadness as he turned towards them again. "Once, it could hold five hundred tall ships at the same time."

Indeed, while he began to recover his wits from his shocked and avid exploration of the place, Inziladûn realised that this was what contributed the most to blur the lines of the impressive human buildings, until they seemed naught but shadows over the grey of stone. There was no activity in the docks, nor a single ship in sight.

That same evening, they reached a small pier where they left their horses in the care of several, not very enthusiastic looking men –the people of Andustar had never liked horses, Valandil told Inziladûn with a sigh- and were taken by a fleet of small boats towards the Bay. Upon reaching the place, Inziladûn saw that the tall ships of old had been exchanged for humble boats, where fishermen struggled with nets and prepared for the night capture.

"The King has graciously allowed us a fleet of this size." Valandil answered his unvoiced question. The even, pleasant look that he had shown during their land trip was back on his features, and Inziladûn kept his silence.

The stairs were a renewed matter of complaint for Hannon, who muttered to Inziladûn several times that which kind of forsaken Elf-friends would build cities with such poor access. The Prince´s heir, however, was fascinated. Steep as the ascent was, it allowed him to have a magnificent view of the location, where stunning works of engineery battled for dominance with natural marvels.

When they reached the gates, word of their arrival had already reached the place, and many townsfolk were waiting to welcome them. Inziladûn was not used to be so close to the multitude, and a part of him almost expected hostility from that strange Western folk who kept Elvish traditions and names in defiance of the Kings. His sea-grey eyes and sharp features, however, passed remarkably unnoticed, though his companions were regarded with badly dissimulated suspicion as they came in behind him. He heard a whisper in a language that he did not understand.

The palace of the lords of Andunië lay at the highest point of the city. Inziladûn had never seen such a place before: its gardens were outside and around the house instead of inside, and bloomed with a vegetation unknown in Armenelos. They had a delicate quality that the species of the capital lacked, like a softer colouring, and grew in a gentle disorder that reminded him of his own garden.

Falling into spontaneous silence, the party walked a winding path among small trees with silvery leaves that rustled in the breeze. Inziladûn felt a strange unease and a knot in his throat, not unlike the one he felt when he passed by the White Tree in the courtyard of the royal palace. It was almost with relief that his eyes finally distinguished the shapes of Valandil´s family standing at the threshold of the house.

Tall and dignified, the old Lord of Andunië advanced a step to welcome them. Valandil advanced as well and bowed, while Inziladûn stood in place, slightly abashed at the unfamiliar surroundings. But Eärendur bowed, and took him by the hand with exquisite courtesy.

"Welcome to my house, my lord Inziladûn. These are my grandchildren, Númendil and Artanis. We all wish to offer our deepest and sincerest thanks to you for coming here on this grave purpose, and hope that the men of your company will find their stay satisfying. Brief as it might be." he added with a look at Hannon, who wore a haughty expression that hid his own unease.

Inziladûn nodded in silence to his mother´s uncle, while Valandil kissed his children on the brow.

"Mother could not come. One of us had to stay in Armenelos." he told Númendil, a youth some years younger than Inziladûn himself who received his father´s words with an uncommon gravity.

"It was kind of the King to allow you to come." Artanis, a pale young woman of full cheeks and slight frame bowed to him, as if he had had something to do with the decision. Slightly dazed, he nodded back to her and offered her a greeting. Her voice had a strange accent, ethereal yet charming. "And it was kind of you to come as well, my lord."

"It is my duty, and my pleasure to offer the comfort of my presence to my kin in an hour of sadness." he replied, years of training finally surfacing in his mind as he recovered from the feeling of stupour.

"Gracious words. But now, let us enter!" Eärendur invited, waving at him cordially. Inziladûn nodded, and climbed the marble stairs after him. That place was much smaller and less impressive than the Palace in Armenelos, but the details and ornaments in the doors, columns, windows and archways were minutious, an imitation of Nature of skilled and graceful lines. A feeling of elegance pervaded the spacious, sparsely furnished halls, and Inziladûn had the strange feeling that everything, even the book that had been carelessy thrown on a chair, was exactly where it was meant to be.

Forcing himself to banish those haunting thoughts –was he falling into his father´s webs of suspicion?- he saw to the accomodation of all the people who came with him in spite of the polite dismissals of his hosts, and prepared for dinner. As he arrived to the dining-room, a curious place with a large table,around which the whole family sat together, he was offered the seat of honour, which he firmly refused in spite of Hannon´s glare. He felt like little more than a child, face to Valandil´s grave dignity and Eärendur´s lordly welcoming mood.

During the meal, many things were discussed, including the crop on the still inhabited fields of the South, the adaptation of large-scale fishing trade and the incidences of their trip, but no politics. To Inziladûn´s shock, they talked about the dead woman´s last days and smiled fondly at the things she had said. The feeling of unreality, briefly quenched by their warm welcome, arose again as he heard them talk, with voices that, he realised in a sudden flash of insight, _were not their own_.

What was happening?

"Honourable priest of the Great God." Eärendur made a signal to a servant, who filled both his cup and that of Hannon. "Would you have a drink with me?"

The fat, round-eyed man nodded, a bit mollified by the treatment, though he waited until the Lord of Andunië took a first sip from his cup to do the same to his own.

"I must admit that this wine is excellent." he said. Inziladûn swallowed forcibly, wondering why the scene brought him such unease.

A minute later, his tutor suddenly fell over the table, motionless. In a heartbeat, he bolted from his seat, searching for a knife to be used as a weapon.

Nobody else around him moved.

"He is alive." Eärendur reassured him, with the same tone of voice he had used to tell him that the salad was especially good. Inziladûn stared at him in stunned disbelief, then reacted and sought for the unconscious man´s pulse. Soon afterwards, he found it, but this did not bring him much relief.

Now, he could understand everything. That feeling... it had been a warning, that something unnatural was creeping over him. But instead of following his heart´s advice, Inziladûn had been irresistibly drawn towards the alien world, seeking to pierce it and discover its secrets, courting danger like a moth drawn to the flame.

"Please, follow me, my lord."

Inziladûn retreated a step from Eärendur´s beckoning gesture. As if they had been waiting for an unspoken signal, Valandil and his children stood up in silence and abandoned the room, leaving them alone with the sleeping Hannon.

"If you want to kill me," he hissed, "it would have been much easier to poison my drink as well."

"Please, listen to me." said Eärendur, still unmoved. The lack of feelings in his features was becoming disturbing. "You are my kin, and I have no wish to harm you. If this is not enough for the son of Gimilzôr, however, I will add this other reassurance- if I killed you, I would sign the death sentence of my whole family."

"Then, what do you want? To take me hostage?" Inziladûn insisted. His mother´s uncle shook his head calmly.

"I want to talk to you. It would have been impossible for me to say a few things that need to be said, with your father´s spy standing at our side. Now, would you please follow me, my lord?"

Inziladûn did not allow himself to relax at the reassurance, though deep inside, a doubt was beginning to arise.

_They are good people, Inziladûn. Listen to what they have to say... do not be like your father._

His mother, who loved him more than anything, who had embraced him on the night that he left Armenelos, had said those words to him. Wouldn´t he trust her?

_Listen to what they have to say..._

But, what would they have to say? Finely-crafted words to persuade him to their cause, like his father had feared? What reasons would they give, which further secrets would they reveal about the events surrounding his birth and childhood?

_Hadn´t he come for this, to find answers to his questions?_ a small insidious voice whispered into his ear, that same voice that had always tried to lure him to dark places and unknown dangers. The same voice for which he had braved the heights and the risk of discovery, the night before he left Armenelos.

Still wavering in doubt, the young man performed his ultimate test. Locking Eärendur´s eyes with his own, he looked inside him, searching for signs that would reveal his hidden motives.

There were none. No attempts to flee, nothing to hide, nothing but the same, unwavering patience as he waited for him to make his decision.

"I will follow you." he said, putting the knife down and entrusting his life to the hands of an enemy.

\----------

"What is it that you want to tell me?"

Maybe it had sounded afraid, or still worse, childish. Inziladûn bit his lip, forcing himself to stay calm as Eärendur led him downstairs, through a dark tunnel and finally into a spacious chamber whose every wall was covered by piles of dusty scrolls. Curious in spite of himself, he tried to take one of them and decipher it, but Eärendur pushed him gently towards a low wooden table with two seats. Before his eyes reluctantly abandoned the exploration of the document, however, Inziladûn realised two things: the written lines were not Adûnaic, but some form of Elvish, and the parchment was old.

_Very_ old.

Out of an irrational impulse, he sought in his pocket for the Hand of Ashtarte, and pressed it while he muttered a prayer. But if Eärendur noticed his gesture, he gave no reaction.

"Sit, please." he invited, with unflinching politeness. Inziladûn obeyed, feeling more and more unsettled by his calm.

"Thanks." he muttered. "But, lord Eärendur..."

"What do you remember about your mother?"

The beginnings of a complaint died in Inziladûn´s throat as the soft-spoken question was voiced at him. Astonished, he stared at his host, considering its implications.

"You _knew_." he said at last, more as a vague, all-encompassing affirmation than a question. For the first time a real emotion, slight as it was, crossed the features of the lord of Andunië, some sadness mingled with – was that guilt?

"Indeed, I do remember her. I saw her the night before I left on this trip. Yes, I did." he nodded proudly, as the older man frowned in surprise at his revelation. "I climbed all the way to her terrace and met her in her back quarters. There were many –sordid questions regarding my birth that I wanted to ask before I undertook this travel to meet her mother´s kin. She told me that you were good people and that I should listen to you. "Slowly, the flow of his words was giving him back some of his confidence. "You have her to thank for my decision to follow you here."

Eärendur´s features were suddenly veiled again. To read him like he did others was almost impossible, but now Inziladûn could not help but wonder if he could be feeling attacked.

It was only after a long while of silence that he opened his mouth to continue, his gaze lost in the distance.

"Your grandmother –my sister- Lindorië... she was born in exile, like me." Inziladûn nodded, encouraging him, somewhat unnecessarily, to continue. Nobody had told him anything about his mother´s kin before. "She was fair and gentle, yet there was strength inside her, like there is for all of us. In spite of the hardships and of everything that we had lost, she never lost her smile. Your mother - inherited this trait from her."

Inziladûn nodded in silence. For a moment, a joyful grin in tired features gripped at his imagination, and he swallowed with effort.

"Your grandfather was Melkorbazer, kin to the King in Ar-Zimrathôn´s time." Eärendur continued. "He was governor of Sor, close to Romenna, and as such he came to visit us on the King´s orders. He fell in love with her."

Not a single sound could be heard when he paused, except for the faint creaking of the flames on the hearth.

"This Melkorbazer was a priest of Melkor, but he was very different from the one who is sleeping upstairs." he continued matter-of-factly, and without the slightest sign of disdain. "I must admit that it took me a long time to accept that he was a good man, since those long years of conflicts, suspicions and misunderstandings have hardened our hearts to such a degree against one another. I thought that nothing good could come from one of ...them. "He chuckled, a strange and unusual sound. "But he truly risked his life, to marry her and have the King lift her ban so he could take her with him. Ar-Zimrathôn took away his governorship and did not allow him to lay a single foot on the Palace for a very long time. Isn´t it revealing? Before he married Lindorië he had been trusted by the King in spite of the fact that the Lady Alissha had been his kin. After the marriage, he was no better than a proved traitor."

Inziladûn took a sharp intake of breath. He had heard that story before –how Alissha and Adunakhôr had battled for the throne a long time ago, in a war that had brought the ruin of the Elf-friends.

"Lord Melkorbazer was suspected of many things, among them of allying himself with us to obtain revenge for his grandmother´s sister. After all, he would maybe have been King if things had turned out differently. I feared for him, but there was nothing I could do. And one day... news came to me that he was dead."

"He was _killed_?" Inziladûn could not hide his horror at the veiled insinuation. That his mother´s father could have been killed by his father´s kin was almost too revolting for words- but Eärendur just shook his head reassuringly.

"I did not say that. I must admit that I had my suspicions at the time, but now I feel that he simply became sick from despair. He was being robbed of everything that he had always cherished and toiled for, and suspected unjustly. His friends and acquaintances shunned him, and he was forsaken by all." He made a gesture with his hand, as if to abandon those sad thoughts. "Lindorië and your mother fled to Andunië, where they were allowed to live in quiet retirement. My sister had the comfort of her daughter and her strong spirit, but there was a moment where grief became too much for her. She blamed herself for her husband´s death, and living alone in those abandoned lands, fallen to decay while her family languished in exile... "His lips pursed in a firm expression. "Your mother was left alone, with no kin until the decree of Ar-Sakalthôr brought us back. And, not even a year after she ran the twenty flights of stairs to meet us at the harbour, she was taken away to marry a man who did not love her."

The sadness and guilt that Inziladûn had perceived before in his great-uncle´s expression became clearer, starker in a shocking breach from the man´s usual composure. A moment later, however, it was already gone, and Inziladûn felt again unsatisfied.

"Was it really necessary?" he asked, a bit harshly. "Or did the Prince –my father force you to give her away?"

Eärendur shook his head again.

"It was- part of a negotiation." he replied, shortly. "And it _was_ necessary, Inziladûn. Do you understand? It would be our last chance to have a Prince of her bloodline. To fight the shadows of fear, suspicion and superstition that have run in the veins of the royal line like a venom for centuries. _It was our last chance of being heard._ "

Inziladûn stared at him, trying to understand the implications of those words.

"I am that prince." he finally muttered, before his forehead creased in suspicion. "So you want power, after all?"

The Lord of Andunië did not even flinch at this accusation.

"The power to save Númenor, yes. But not for me. For you."

Inziladûn took breath, forcing the buzz of his thoughts to still. So, it had been this. There was no sordid secret in his birth anymore. No enigma in the sufferings of his mother.

Had those people have been driven mad from desperation, as they wasted away in the lands of the East? Such a fantastical scheme- so much suffering, suffering that could kill a person, and all for what? For the mad idea that blood would one day hear the distant call of blood and forsake its other loyalties?

What did those people want? What was so important as to sacrifice their own kin for it? Eärendur had spoken of saving Númenor –but was it power what they wanted, like his father used to say? Vindication for their family? Had they been bewitched by Elves? Or did it have something to do with their beliefs?

He forced himself to find a grip.

"Very well, lord Eärendur." he said, in the steadiest tone that he could muster. "I am the future King that will listen to you. " _Never be like your father,_ she had said. "Now, tell me everything. I want to know what drives you. Why you want this power, and its purpose. Why you would suffer for it and have my mother and I suffer for it as well. Because there is more to all this, and I will hear it before I listen to treasonous words any longer."

A belated awareness that he had said something very offensive crossed his brain, but still he kept his intent expression, waiting for an answer. Eärendur looked at him gravely for a long time –and then, to his great surprise, he smiled.

"You are so right." he said, then sobered up and returned his gaze. "Very well, let us begin. Son of Inzilbêth, what do you know about Elves?"

Inziladûn did not have to think for a long time.

"They are immortal beings of a great and terrible power. They are Men´s enemies since the beginning of times, since a prophecy told them that they would take their place one day. As such, they fought three great wars against Men and their King, the All-Powerful Melkor, and thought they lost the two first, in the third they allied themselves with the Demons of the West and He had to sacrifice himself to defeat them." For a moment he could not help but chuckle, a way to relieve the pent-up tension. "I am sure that you have a different tale to tell."

"I do." Eärendur replied. He stood up from his seat, and walked towards one of the pile of neatly stacked rolls of parchment. For a moment, he fingered through them with almost religious care, and took one of them in his hands. "Do you know what this is? It is the library of the kings of old, from the times of Elros Tar-Minyatur."

Inziladûn stared at him in incredulity.

"The oldest scrolls in Númenor date from the reign of Ar-Adunakhôr." he said, but even while he was still pronouncing those words, the intent left them and caused his voice to trail away in involuntary hesitation. The lines drawn by the teachings of his preceptors had always been so arbitrary. "Did you... steal them?"

"I took them away before the King destroyed them. They were hidden here, and stayed undiscovered for all our years of exile." the lord of Andunië said while he unrolled a piece of parchment over the table. In spite of himself, Inziladûn stood up, and leaned over it avidly.

How many times had he wanted to know more, to read about ages past, ancient kings and the reasons for things, only to be told that those records did not exist, and that the things that he wanted to know were nothing but myths and legends! And now, they were all here, at the reach of his hand...

It was too good to be true.

"I still do not know if I should trust you." he muttered. But as his knowledgeable eyes studied the parchment´s fabric, he found no immediate grounds to doubts its ancient origins. It smelled, _felt_ old, older than Ar-Adunakhôr even... how much older, he could not even imagine.

And still, the words were written in Elvish script, spidery letters that Inziladûn could not understand or make sense of. A part of him felt overcome with frustration, that he would be so near to a source of knowledge whose scope he would never have imagined in his wildest dreams –and still unable to read a single word.

As if he had guessed the young man´s thoughts, Eärendur unrolled a second scroll, whose Adûnaic letters said "Translated records of the Letters of King Elros Tar-Minyatur", in an ancient dialect that even well-read Inziladûn could not locate in time.

"Adûnaic and the Elvish tongues have existed together in Númenor since the founding of the kingdom." the lord of Andunië explained. "The Line of Elros always used Quenya in ceremonies, and Sindarin at home until the land was first shaken by the corrupted beliefs of those who had lived in Middle-Earth under the growing shadow of Mordor. The Merchant Princes of the colonies introduced dark cults, and mistrust for Elves grew in time. A change came upon the land of Númenor, and the ancient wisdom was forgotten and shunned. The Kings used twisted myths to assert their power in their struggles for the Sceptre, and they even forgot their Elven blood."

"Elven blood?" Inziladûn had the instinct of watching his own hand warily, as if the blueish veins on its palm could be hiding a terrible venom. Then, he shook his head and snorted defensively. "This is ridiculous!"

"Read the letter." Eärendur pressed him gently. Inziladûn obeyed in spite of his agitation, though the lines took an unusually long time to sink into his brain.

_Elros Tar-Minyatur, King of Númenor, to his brother Elrond Half-Elven..._

With a gasp of dismay, Inziladûn let the document fall back on the table. A thought crossed his mind that it would be the time to turn back and leave and forget about this whole conversation –and still the need, the accursed _need_ to know was somehow stronger than his dismay.

"Tell me everything." he demanded again, sitting down. "From beginning to end. I will be here all night, if I must, but do not leave anything out."

Eärendur bowed slightly, and sat down in turn.

"In the beginning" he said, "as you already know well, there was Eru, Father of All. And He created two generations of children, the Firstborn, or Elves, and the Secondborn, or Men..."

For long hours, nothing else was heard in that room but the soft voice of Eärendur, unraveling the tales of the Beginning and the First Age of the world. Inziladûn listened, shaken with alternate emotions of shock and enchantment, to the story of the corruption of Melkor, the Awakening of the Elves at Cuiviénen, and the marvels of the land of the Two Trees. He was told of the making of the Silmarils and the rebellion of the Noldor, the war of the Jewels and the coming of Men to Beleriand –Uldor, Beren and Lúthien, Húrin the Steadfast, Tuor and Idril, their son Eärendil, and their twin sons, Elrond and Elros. He listened to the account of the plea of Elves and Men to the Valar and the War of Wrath. The expulsion of Melkor, whom Elves and the Men who fought alongside them called Morgoth, and the reward of the Secondborn –the Land of Gift.

"You look so pale." Eärendur remarked, the first interruption since he had begun the first of the legends. "Do you want a drink?"

Inziladûn shook his head in automatic denial. He saw everything around him in blurred lines.

For all his life, he had been taught to repeat and honour each and every one of Melkor´s exploits. He had stood in the fumes of his altar, filled with religious awe, until his mind grew sceptic and sarcastic about the poor logic of the tales of priests. And then he had been told that those were the myths of the populace, and that the Truth had to be protected and tended like a delicate flower. But what had this Truth been? Had it been a terrible secret, too dark to be unravelled?

Inziladûn had never been satisfied with the scarce tatters of the past, the confusing explanations that he had read and heard. And now that it was all laid in front of him, with a terrible beauty that could not help but pierce his heart, the beliefs ingrained in his brain for all his life were not explained but challenged, distorted and threatened without a chance for conciliation. He had an awareness that he should be feeling something, but instead all around him was numbness, seeping inside him and leaving him to wonder in a daze.

"And that is why we do what we do. "Eärendur concluded. "You dream of it as well, do you not? The Wave... the Downfall."

"How do you know that? No one, _ever_ , could tell me...!" Inziladûn´s voice came out so hoarse that he would have felt ashamed of it if he had been able.

"Because we all have that dream in my family. You inherited it from us, Inziladûn. It is a warning of what will come one day, if we forsake our heritage and inflict pain over others in our pride. We alone were granted this vision, and that is why we will sacrifice anything to save the island of Númenor, its wisdom, and its beauty. Do you understand our motivations now?"

_Did he?_ Inziladûn had been absorbing information for hours, and now his mind was reaching the breaking point. He tried to put an order in the swarm of thoughts and ideas, to reach the ultimate meaning of everything. He wondered if he was being enthralled with carefully wrought lies, yet his heart told him that it was true. The Wave was true.

The Downfall was true. _He saw it every night_. And they didn´t.

He shivered. The wish to run towards the door and flee this archive of ancient and dangerous memories became strong, almost to the point of overpowering every other consideration for a brief instant of anguish. Fortunately, he was able to master it and keep the barest threads of his composure together no matter the pressure, as his tutor Maharbal had taught him to do since his earliest childhood.

_What would the old man think if he saw him now?_ Which scolding, or advice, would he have to offer to him in this situation?

He sought Eärendur´s glance.

"Please, let us leave this subject for tonight." he asked, as politely as he could manage. "I am tired and unable to profit from our exchanges anymore. And... there are also many things that I must think over carefully in the solitude of my chambers. If you will excuse me."

His great-uncle let his eyes trail over him in appreciation. A warm smile graced his features after a moment, and Inziladûn surprised a glow of pride in his glance.

The Prince´s heir stood there, shaken to the core by this not least than by anything else. Pride was something that he had only seen in his mother´s face when she looked at him. Hannon and his circle were as pompous as they were insincere; Maharbal thought that praise would make him grow self-complacent and vain. His father´s features were always veiled by mistrust, and the King – the King had shunned him on the day of his birth.

To be proud of himself had been Inziladûn´s only respite until now.

"You are incredibly strong, son. You have surpassed my greatest expectations. "the lord of Andunië said in a soft, vibrating voice." Now, go and take your rest –I will wake you for the funeral ceremony tomorrow."

With a mute nod of thankfulness, Inziladûn stood up, and staggered towards the door.

\----------

It was not towards his chambers, however, that his errant footsteps carried him, but the gardens. The cool, salty breeze of the sea helped him to ease his dizziness, and for a moment he just stood at the gate with closed eyes. There were drops of sweat upon his brow.

After a while, he finally felt recovered enough as to walk a bit through the place. The silence was eerie, only broken by the distant rumble of the sea. He tried to bathe in the soothing balm of the beautiful plants that covered his path, but there was something strange about them, an uneasy feeling of light and mist- was it a whisper?

Holding his forehead with his hands, he tried to come back from the spell. He felt lost in an Elvish enchantment, ensnared by a greater power who would destroy him as soon as he lowered his guard. At the same time as he had that thought, however, he recalled Eärendur´s tale, and the weight of what had just happened finally sank on his mind.

_People of the Stars... deliverers of evil._

Inziladûn sought for the comfort of the Hand of Ashtarte. He pressed it against his hand, but it felt cold and strangely unresponsive. Distressed by this, he let it fall back on his pocket, and turned away from that inviting yet distressing beauty.

_I will find no rest here,_ he thought. Images haunted his head as they never had in the insidious, luxurious security of Armenelos, of a dark wave falling over their fragile peace and engulfing everyone that he loved. Cold spirits of the West, a fallen god– his grieving heart still wanted to believe in the love of the Queen´s sweet face, but what if she was nothing but a fair creature of men?

What, indeed, if it was true? Would there be deliverance? He remembered his disgust that one time, when the city of Armenelos celebrated the massacre of an indefense tribe of Middle-Earth under the fumes of Melkor´s altar. _Now that He is not there, we must protect them as He once did,_ he had been told, but hadn´t they just been robbed of their food and riches before their misery brought them to war? And he had justified it in his heart, but could he live with the knowledge of those stories of the past, and of proud beings who had fallen to the whispers of the Shadow while they were at the peak of their glory?

As he was having those thoughts, Inziladûn realised that he had got lost in a place that he hadn´t seen before. The garden had stretched into a clearing, where a circle of trees gleamed under the light of the moon. Astonished, he stopped in his tracks to admire their mysterious magnificence, and saw that the leaves in their outstretched branches were the colour of silver, holding fruits of pure gold.

Was this an Elven tree, then? If so, Inziladûn thought, nothing indeed in the world of Men could compare to the beauty of the Firstborn. He tried to imagine the forests of Doriath, where Beren, his ancestor, had lain in an enchanted dream with the most beautiful creature to ever exist in this world...

A soft sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Still shaken, he turned back with unaccustomed violence, and his eyes met the pale figure of a maiden, walking towards him with a slight smile. The billows of her white dress stirred under the breeze.

Inziladûn swallowed a knot on his throat, and slowly came back to reality. She was no Lúthien, but the daughter of Valandil, who stared at him with warm and clear sea-grey eyes.

Behind her, yet more footsteps disrupted the quietude of the clearing, as her brother followed the same path. They both looked quite similar, pale and grey eyed like Elves, but his features were softer and shadowed by a strange, dreamy expression .

" _Malinornë._ " she said, looking at the trees. "Great-Grandmother´s favourite tree."

"She used to come here everyday and stay for hours, doing nothing but stare at them." Númendil recalled with fondness. "I hope there will be trees like those beyond the Circles of the World."

"Or else she might come back and complain." she joked, with a chuckle.

Inziladûn stared at them, once again taken by the unreality of their exchange. Their Adûnaic was accented, and beyond this their every speech, their every show of emotion seemed tightly measured, somehow always falling short from the full emotions of a man. There were never full laughs for those people, or anger, or an unleashed sadness. He wondered whether this was the bearing of an Elf, or of an outcast hardened by necessity.

"I am disturbing your mourning." he muttered, unsure of whether this was even the most adequate wording for it. But he felt the need to leave them to their business.

"Oh, no, please!" She bowed. "It is us who are disturbing you, my lord."

"And we would wish to disturb you for a little longer." her brother added. Surprised, Inziladûn cleaned his face roughly with his right hand, and took a deep breath.

"What do you want?"

"Sit with us." Artanis said, pointing at the soft grass at her side with an inviting gesture of her chin. "Please."

After a moment of hesitation, Inziladûn did what he was told. He had no valid reason to refuse, and those people were his hosts.

Still, when Númendil began to stare at him, he could not help but feel slightly incommodated.

"Yes?" he asked. The younger man smiled, a bit shyly, and looked away.

"He is jealous of your beard." Artanis informed him, combing back her mass of black hair. Inziladûn´s puzzlement augmented for moments.

"You must be the only one, then. It is... not very popular in Armenelos." he added cautiously, then had the urge to smile at the bemused frowns of the siblings. _What strange people_ , he thought. "But you could also grow one, if you like."

Númendil shook his head, mournfully.

"Alas! I have tried."

"The Elven heritage runs strong in him." his sister explained. Inziladûn nodded slightly, tense again at the remembrance of his earlier anguish. To his surprise, both Númendil and Artanis seemed to notice his unease, and they exchanged grave looks that soon turned to compassion.

"I am sorry." she apologised. "You have just... talked to Grandfather."

"Never mind." Inziladûn muttered. He was not used to be pitied, and even less to be read. Was his guard so low after the night´s emotions? "Do you also dream of the Wave?"

Artanis´s expression darkened a little, as if she was remembering something unpleasant.

"We do."

"I have the dubious honour of being the only member of this family who sometimes gets to drown." Númendil added, with some forced cheer. "Do you?"

Inziladûn shook his head. In a way, and in spite of the gloom of the situation, it was comforting to be able to talk about it with someone for the first time. He even felt compelled to talk about things that he had never disclosed to anyone before.

"I see a woman drowning sometimes, however." His voice lowered, as his glance became lost in the glimmer of the silver leaves. "I think it might be my mother."

A long silence welcomed his words.

"Do you think that it would be so near? That... Downfall, I mean."

Númendil shook his head vehemently.

"No. The Creator loves us still. He _has_ to give us a last chance to redeem ourselves. That is what I believe." he added, turning to his sister for confirmation. She nodded.

"He only has to wait for a while longer. When you become King, things will change."

Inziladûn felt a knot on his throat again, as those sea-grey eyes –so similar to those of his mother!- were set on him in boundless faith.

"Many things might still happen yet." he mumbled. "I am only the King´s grandson." _And I am not even sure that I will not wake up tomorrow and see reality._

Fortunately, the mysterious and erratic sense of tact of the siblings did not press the issue any further. Instead of this, Númendil fumbled with his clothes, and took out a bunch of folded papers.

"Here." he said, presenting them to Inziladûn with a look that reminded him vaguely of the cheekiness of a young boy. "An apology for disturbing you, my lord."

Curious, Inziladûn unfolded the papers, and looked over the first one. The writing was Adûnaic, but the letters were clumsily drawn, as if by the hand of a child who was learning to write.

"These are the Princess of the North´s letters to Grandfather." Artanis explained, leaning over his shoulder to take a better look.

"Her written Adûnaic was not good at all." Númendil commented, doing the same. "But she spoke it far better than me, or so Father loves to tell me whenever he has the opportunity."

"This..." Inziladûn´s voice died in his throat, as he felt a strong emotion grow inside him. _His mother´s letters..._ the words that he had never been able to hear –that she had never been able to tell him in the loneliness of her exile. He forced his voice to come out steady. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

"According to Grandfather, they are full of accounts on the marvellous progresses of baby Inziladûn." Artanis commented with a chuckle. Númendil patted him on the shoulder.

"If you ever wondered why there is a Palace clerk who stares at you in a funny way, be sure that this was the one in charge of reading her letters before they were sent." Belatedly aware that he was being teased, Inziladûn blushed a little. He could not be angry at people who had given him such a valuable gift, however, so he merely shook his head with vague indulgence.

He thought of Eärendur, and the shadows of guilt behind the mask of his composed expression. _A gift, or an apology?_

A stronger breeze rustled over the brilliant leaves of the Elven trees, wringing from them an unearthly concert of chimes. As he listened to them in wonder, a distant feeling came upon him, as if everything, his home in Armenelos, his father and brother, the altar of Melkor and the tales of the remote past were so far away from this place that their lines were blurring in his sight.

_He was tired... so tired..._

"Lay down here, my lord." Artanis´s soft voice penetrated the haze of his mind. Her face leaned over him, and he saw his mother´s eyes looking at him in loving concern. "We will wake you when the time comes –we promise."

Feeling bereaved of the strength to protest or suspect an Elven spell, or even of feeling repelled by the idea of sleeping outdoors, Inziladûn did as he was told. Soon afterwards, his eyes were closed, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	11. Mother of All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have maybe heard the words of the litany before... some of them, anyway. The "Vision" is the most awfully famous cliché to depict a conversion since the beginning of the existence of the religions of choice. And yes, so I introduced hierogamia in my fic. You have not seen anything yet. ;)

_But when he found himself in darkness,_  
in the earth's awful depths,  
with a group of unholy Greeks,  
and bodiless figures appeared before him  
with haloes of light,  
the young Julian for a moment lost his nerve:  
an impulse from his pious years came back  
and he crossed himself.  
The Figures vanished at once;  
the haloes faded away, the lights went out.  
The Greeks glanced at each other.  
The young man said: "Did you see the miracle?  
I'm frightened, friends. I want to leave.  
Didn't you see how the demons vanished  
the second they saw me make the holy sign of the cross?"  
The Greeks chuckled scornfully:  
"Shame on you, shame, to talk that way  
to us sophists and philosophers!  
If you want to say things like that,  
say them to the Bishop of Nicomedia and his priests.  
The greatest gods of our glorious Greece  
appeared before you.  
And if they left, don't think for a minute  
that they were frightened by a gesture.  
It was just that when they saw you  
making that vile, that crude sign,  
their noble nature was disgusted  
and they left you in contempt."  
This is what they said to him, and the fool  
recovered from his holy, blessed fear,  
convinced by the unholy words of the Greeks.

_(K. Kavafis, "Julian at the Mysteries")_

The next morning, Inziladûn´s face was gaunt, and he wore dark circles under his eyes as he took part in the ceremony. Nobody mentioned anything about this, however, not even Hannon, whose own misadventures with wine had made him unusually indulgent towards his charge.

In the afternoon, the hospitable family planned other activities for them. They visited the stone city, perched in its nest on the cliff, and walked the enormous harbour from one extreme of the Bay to another, empty except for the presence of fishing boats tied to wooden poles. Inziladûn caught himself staring at the Western horizon in disquiet more than once, wondering about the land that stretched beyond their sight. He remembered Eärendur´s words about his forefather Eärendil, who had reached the Undying Lands with the Silmaril upon his brow and never returned.

To his dismay, there was no further chance to start another long conversation with his intriguing hosts, with Hannon dogging his heels all day. Only the following morning, as he watched how the light of dawn tinged the surface of the Sea in rosy hues, regretting his impending reparture, he heard a familiar light rustle of robes behind him. Turning back, he saw the two Elvish siblings standing behind his seat, twin enigmatic smiles upon their faces.

"It is better this way." Númendil said. "You will have time to think things over, my lord, without us to pester you."

Artanis laughed, a soft, rippling sound like the murmuring of the sea. Her pale hand reached his side, and produced a small, well-worn book from the folds of her dress.

Inziladûn took it in silence, and examined it with a frown.

"Will you do it alone?" she asked. It was full of texts in the Elven tongues.

Thankful, and heartened by this gift, Inziladûn nodded. This little book would be the key to explore the elusive truth with his own eyes, the ancient scrolls and the forbidden legends of the Elder Days. He wondered if there would be others that he did not know, sparse and hidden in dark vaults of the Palace of Armenelos

_If he only could find them..._

"I will." he assured her. If he was set to it, he would have mastered those languages in a few months, he thought. He was aware that his mind was quicker than most.

The young woman smiled at his answer. In an unexpected motion, she tiptoed to his front, and he felt himself suddenly pulled into a light embrace that smelled of flowers. Surprise paralysed him, and he barely had time to relax before she pulled away again, as gracefully as she had approached.

"May the Valar guard you, my lord." she said, bowing in unison with her amused brother and turning back to leave the room.

\----------

Inziladûn´s next journey would begin by crossing the Andustar again, and then follow the coast South until he reached the Forbidden Bay. This would have meant six days or ride in normal circumstances, though the carts and provisions slowed the process down to two weeks.

For those two weeks, the young man became taciturn and self-absorbed. He rode in the front, away from the rest of the party, and payed little mind to the surroundings that had fascinated him so much in his previous trip with Valandil. During their night stays at the resting points of the travelling nobles, not even Hannon´s exuberant conversation was able to wring more than two or three polite responses from him before he retired for the night.

Only when they approached the Bay, Inziladûn was forced to put a momentary stop to his musings to admire the beauty of the place. This was Eldalondë the Green, stretching before the dazzling blue of the Sea, where –according to Eärendur- the ships of the Eldar used to come at will and scatter their gifts for the benefit of their mortal friends.

_Before the Great Estrangement..._

Sweet and varied scents reached his nostrils from the sacred grove. As they ventured inside, he saw trees whose branches sagged under the weight of scarlet globed fruits, the Fruits of the Goddess as the later Númenoreans called them. The silver and golden trees that he had admired in the home of the Lords of Andunië grew there at will, too, a forest of glittering brilliance that hung over the heads of the astonished pilgrims as they made their way through the carved path.

All those people believed that all those marvels could thrive in that land because it was the home of the Goddess. Lost in a dream of Elvish making, they reached the sacred beach and the Cave full of religious fervour, and knelt upon the steps of the altar to pray to her statue. Inziladûn had once wished more than anything in the world to do so, but now this wish had turned to apprehension and fear.

What would he see, when his eyes were set upon the Queen? Would vacant eyes stare back at him, devoid of the comfort that she had given him since he was a child? The illusion was now broken, the lingering faith that came from need shattered by too much knowledge. Inziladûn did not regret knowing the truth about Melkor, but the goddess, _his_ goddess –sometimes during his journey, the thought had brought him a searing pain, and he had wondered if, once again, his imprudent curiosity had destroyed one of the most precious things he had.

For all those reasons, Inziladûn would have preferred to never lay a foot in her cave. And yet there he was, and there was no way in this world to flee his obligations.

Before they had even reached the seaside, the path through the forest became a road, full of pilgrims who came in groups, singing songs and carrying their offerings to the sanctuary. The first few, scattered vendors who stood at the sides selling all kinds of merchandise became full stalls and stands, offering meals, safe and cheap trips back home, little pieces of rock from the Sacred Cave, shells and pearls of the goddess, and even, to Inziladûn´s shock, hair and fingernails to gift her with. Everybody stared at them as they passed by with their train and the carts loaded with the King´s presents, and even as they stood aside to let him pass with a bow, Inziladûn heard a rumbling buzz of murmurations, and was subjected to the more irreverent stares of curiosity that he had encountered in his whole life.

As they finally reached the gates of the splendid Sacred City that had grown around the grounds of the sanctuary –the home of priests and merchants, joined in a single people by the community of their endeavours-, a sizeable delegation came to greet them. At its head was Lord Itashtart, Governor of the Forbidden Bay, who bowed and helped Inziladûn to dismount with an unwavering hand. He was a proud-looking man of prominent chin and dark eyes, and tight muscles that showed under his priestly robes. Head Priest of the sanctuary of Ashtarte-Uinen by title, he was kin to the King, and above all a general of the troops which were established further down the Bay in several encampments of a permanent nature. His true role was to prevent an uprising of his fearsome Northern neighbour, and looking at him, Inziladûn could not help but be shaken by an involuntary emotion as he remembered what his grandfather Melkorbazer had been once.

_No,_ he said to himself, glad for the comfort that this train of thought brought to his mind at the very threshold of that place. He could not regret what he had learned that night.

"I am glad to welcome you, Inziladûn son of Gimilzôr." the man said, formally. "Our humble city is proud to receive a royal prince in his first visit to the Goddess."

Feeling at last in his own element, Hannon undertook most of the dealings about the gifts, and how they would be brought to the cave in procession and stored in their rightful places. Once that everything was set to everybody´s satisfaction, they accepted Itashtart´s hospitality, and were led to his palace through the wide avenues of the city. Compared to the Palace of Armenelos the building was small, but its architecture already felt more familiar to Inziladûn, with its gold and blue façade and shady inner gardens with running fountains.

After the meal, some polite and veiled insinuations of the High Priest convinced the Prince´s heir of the impossibility of delaying the visit further. The crowd had already gathered on the beach at the West end of the city, and as close to the cave´s entrance as they were allowed by the soldiers, eager to catch a glimpse of the royal visit. Dressed in official purple, pale and taken aback by the interest of the multitude, Inziladûn thought that he had to be giving a bad impression indeed, to all those people who were used to his father´s easy majesty.

This shore, though also bathed by the Western sea, was very different from the Bay of Andunië. All traces of the ancient harbour had been erased when Ar-Adunakhôr consecrated that land to Ashtarte-Uinen by means of an official ceremony, and the direcion of Eressëa was pronounced forbidden. Now, all that remained in the place was a beach of brilliant, golden sands, full of scattered shells of various shapes that the sea had thrown upon the coast. Waves broke freely upon it, leaving a trail of sizzling white foam as they slowly waned and died.

The cave was South of the city, carved by the might of the ocean on the base of a rocky mass that stood, alone and impressive, facing the sea. Inziladûn realised, in surprise, that it was red like the tiles of the roofs of Armenelos, and the last sunrays wrung strange hues from their surface that reminded him more of precious stones than rock.

Dismounting from his horse, he covered the last stretch of the procession on his feet. The crowd had stayed behind, and Lord Itashtart stopped and made a signal to the guards who had followed them to retire as well. Left alone, Inziladûn swallowed deeply, and lay a foot upon the divine threshold.

The place smelled of humidity, not like the small sanctuary of the Armenelos royal palace, but a different kind that felt strong and salty like the Sea itself. It was so dark that he needed to blink several times to become accustomed to lamplight.

A metallic glitter was the first thing that he saw, forming curious shapes under the veil of shadows. He stared at them in curiosity, and noticed that the walls were covered with piles of precious objects and gems of every kind, the presents that the princes of the land sent every year to rival each other in magnificence. Slowly, he advanced among them, his footsteps silent against the colourful mosaics of the stone pavement.

His eyes could already distinguish the figure on the altar, and his heart started beating quickly inside his chest. Stopping on his tracks, he willed himself to be calm, to approach the altar with the required serenity.

The statue of the Goddess was made of pale ivory, and dressed in blue silks with silver thread embroideries. Raven black hair flew freely over her shoulders, crowned by a delicate diadem made of pure silver. Her chest was bare, and a child was feeding from her breast, not playing with it like the Lady of Armenelos. Under her feet, a crescent moon engraved with pearls gleamed under the faint light of torches.

Letting his glance trail further down, Inziladûn saw the altar, drowned under a mass of evergreen boughs of Return, vowed to the Goddess by grateful captains after sucessful trips or dangerous ventures. Only one, spread in a prominent place for everyone to see, made a strong contrast with the others: it had withered, and his leaves were brittle and dry.

An inscription said that it was the bough of Return of Aldarion, who, according to a legend, had felt the wrath of the goddess for taking a forbidden path to the land of the Elves. Other popular lore that Inziladûn recalled, however, stated that the reason of the goddess´s anger had been his disregard for his wife, the Princess Erendis. For many in Númenor both traditions had melded into one, the double sin of the impious Aldarion against the majesty of the goddess in her consecrated dominions of sea and love.

Approaching a step further, Inziladûn saw that there were silver letters following the curve of the crescent moon. They were verses of the most famous litany of Ashtarte-Uinen, which he had learned as a little child:

" _Daughter of the white foam_

_Fairer than silver_

_Fairer than ivory_

_Fairer than pearls_

_Mother of All"_

Inziladûn swallowed, and ventured for the first time to look at her face. Her beauty surpassed that of her sister of Armenelos by far, finely carved by the famous Abdashtart, greatest of the sculptors who had ever graced the land of Númenor. For an instant, he felt her gaze upon him, but this time he did not allow himself to lower his head, overwhelmed by an intensity of feeling. He kept his glance steady, and studied her carved features searching, almost wishing for the familiar signs of love.

Just as he had feared, there were none. She was nothing but a beautiful statue, devoid of life or feeling. This realisation should have brought him peace, but instead he felt strangely cold and bereaved, like the night when his mother had closed her doors to him forever.

And then, Inziladûn felt a new understanding dawn in his mind. The child had needed his mother, and his fancy had woven her in the features of this silent goddess of ivory. The sailors who had cut those green boughs had needed her protection from the dangerous mercy of the seas. She bestowed healing upon the sick, comfort upon the grieving, love upon the forsaken.

Her image had been wrought from the wishes and dreams of Men, and this had been the source of this inert statue´s boundless power.

Shaken, the young man turned aside from her. Two dark eyes met his, patient and unflinching.

Realising for the first time that he was not alone, Inziladûn tried to sober up, and stared at the intruder who sat upon a finely woven rug on the floor. It was a woman with a diadem of pearls upon her brow, whose dark hair flowed down her back in a cunning imitation of the goddess. Precious jewels hung from her neck and arms, and she wore long skirts of blue silk; her breasts, however, were fully naked. Her skin had the pale colour of someone who had consecrated her life to a place of shadows, and her lips were curved in a slight smile.

Inziladûn´s chest clenched. He knew why she was here, and he did not have the heart for it. And yet, he had to. He had been sent on the King´s stead, like his father so many times before him. With forced steps, he reached her side and knelt in front of her, and, unexpected and graceful as a serpent, she took his hands with her own.

Even back on the day of his majority, when he had been forced to undergo this ritual for the first time, Inziladûn remembered having felt torn about it. In his mind, the Goddess was a mother, and the carnal aspects of love that she patronised felt to him like a revolting contradiction. Now, he felt more unprepared than ever, almost violently pulled away from the raging turmoil of his feelings and reflections by that woman´s arrival.

Slowly, yet skillfully, the High Priestess of Ashtarte-Uinen undressed him and scattered the clothes upon the rug. Noticing the tension in his limbs, she smiled again, and laid her soft hands over his shoulders, letting them trail down his skin with feathery caresses. As Inziladûn closed her eyes, he had a sudden vision of the warm fondness in Artanis´s features while she pressed her body against his, and he was shaken.

Regaining his composure as he was able, he laid back on the rug, and forced himself to surrender to the might of the goddess. The High Priestess crept over him, light and swift, in total silence. The dim lights of the ceiling, and the spark of a challenge in her eyes were the only things that he could see now, towering over his face. One of her hands moved downwards, and for the first time, he had to take a sharp breath.

The sacred prostitutes, servants of the goddess, were renowned for their extraordinary abilities throughout Númenor and the colonies. There was no woman or man who could boast of equalling their knowledge on more than a thousand ways and branches of physical love. They liked to compare themselves with the soldiers who honoured Melkor in battle and spread the King´s renown with their skills: they were their female counterparts, whose mission was to have all bow to the power of the Goddess.

This particular woman, due to her position, was hailed as first and mightiest of those who honoured Ashtarte-Uinen with their bodies, and Inziladûn soon discovered that there was much more to her than what he could have imagined. His rigid limbs began to relax and unclench under her hands; his unease and uncomfortableness gave way to a thin, swiftly growing ache of desire. With her expert touchs, she brought him first to the deepest abysses of misery, and then to the highest peaks of pleasure. She revived his vigour time after time, until he collapsed, exhausted, in her cradling arms.

Soon afterwards, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

\----------

As was usual in him, his sleep was light, and disturbed by vivid visions that succeeded one another in an endless procession. He saw the dark eyes of the priestess, and heard Artanis´s sweet laugh caressing his ears in the void. The statue of the goddess took life and beckoned to him, but when he embraced her it was Inzilbêth that he was holding in his arms, and he felt complete for the first time since he had been a child.

Then, there was a shift, and he felt himself sink to a dark place. He was treading the stone floor of the cave, but there were no lamplight to show him where he was going. In front of him, something gleamed softly, and he realised that it was Ashtarte-Uinen, holding the child with graceful hands of ivory. He rushed forwards, wanting to embrace her again, but her eyes were vacant.

_Inziladûn..._

Frightened by the sudden voice, which seemed to have echoed in his mind, the young man turned back. A dazzling radiance blinded him, and he fell to his knees covering his face with both hands.

_Inziladûn..._

Blinking his tears away, a deep instinct compelled him to look again. In front of him there was a woman, whose every single finger, every single hair was perfection. She had eyes like stars, hair like gold, and a crown of woven light upon her brow. Her lips were curved in a smile, but one that didn´t comfort him or give him warmth. It made him sad instead, with an unbearable anguish that ripped his chest.

He wanted her to hold him, and yet he knew that this was not possible. Her hands were made to hold stars in the sky, and her eyes looked through and past him, encompassing the whole world. And the smile in his lips was lost to him, lost forever in this marred land of shadow.

_Star-kindler_ he muttered, knowing that his voice would never be heard. For the first time he felt the ache, the loss of this lineage of inmortals trapped in mortal bodies, who could never reach the Undying Lands. And then he knew why the men of Númenor had built their false gods and chosen to live in darkness, because the true light was cruel and beautiful, and hurt them too much.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, he awoke upon the floor of the cave. He felt cold, and his hand sought the space at his side, but the woman had left somewhere during his sleep. Shivering strongly, he reached for the rug, and wrapped his naked body with it.

\----------

This trip had changed the direction of his life. During the days of his ride home, and above all when he caught the first glimpse of Armenelos, the royal palace over the hill, and the domes of the temple of Melkor, Inziladûn was forced to ponder this truth in his mind. A confused and rebellious young man who had wanted – _needed_ \- to know the answer to many questions had left this city not even a couple of months ago; now he was back, and the dangerous knowledge of too many things haunted his steps.

As they entered the First Courtyard of the palace in a clatter of hooves, however, Inziladûn´s grim musings gave way to surprise. Except for the soldiers who had opened the gates, there was no one there to greet him. Only the White Tree – _Nimloth_ \- stood in its corner, haughty and abandoned by those who lived in fear of its memories.

"This is strange, my lord." he heard someone mutter at his left. "They were notified of our coming."

Inziladûn dismounted, the first whisper of a feeling growing within his heart. Without waiting for anyone to follow, he walked towards the gates of the Main Compound, and almost bumped into a group of men who were talking in agitated whispers with a woman. As soon as they recognised him, they all stopped talking and bowed.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked. Nobody answered him.

The feeling became stronger.

"What is the meaning of this?" he repeated. After a while, it was the woman who advanced a step.

"Something –I am not sure what, but something has happened in the North Wing, my lord. I was trying to..."

But Inziladûn had already left. As he dazedly stumbled through the labyrinthic corridors, past many groups of people who gossiped and whispered and bowed to him, a persistent vision flashed alone through his mind –of the giant wave, engulfing the woman who lay curled on the ground at his feet.

The guards of the North Wing stood aside as they saw him come, and made no comment when he passed him by. It was the first time since Inziladûn was a child that they had not held him at the threshold, denying him entrance. The crumbling of those eternal walls, the casual brushing aside of so many days and nights of misery only served to turn his anxiety into dread –it was as if the order of his world had come to its final end on that very moment.

As if to corroborate this fear, the first halls and gardens that he crossed lay in a heavy silence. No proud ladies, no bustling or attendants, no sound except for the echo of his swift footsteps on the floor. Taking a sharp breath, he undertook the ascension of flights and flights of stairs, and finally found some signs of life at his mother´s level. A young lady ran past him, and took the stairs with a frightened expression on her face.

Now, he could hear the first sounds, of women voices echoing each other´s laments, and the light sound of feet running and silk rustling. As he turned around a corner, he found himself face to face with his brother.

"What happened?" he asked, unceremoniously. Then, however, he sought his face and his heart sank. The younger man had gone completely pale, and behind the pallor there was a horror, a fear that struck Inziladûn on the face.

Before he could recover, Gimilkhâd pushed him aside, and left in a rush.

Throwing aside the last semblances of propriety, Inziladûn ran towards his mother´s chambers. A crowd of ladies blocked the door, and he made his way among them without even bothering to tell them to move aside. As they recognised him, they pulled back, gazing at him with expressions of the deepest compassion.

The first thing that Inziladûn could see was Gimilzôr´s figure, standing like an abhorrent contradiction in the middle of the sanctuary of his childhood. Quickly, his eyes darted towards the bed, and there was her mother in a soft violet dress, lying with closed eyes and both arms stretched at her sides.

Dead.

"... and she was there, sitting in front of the window..." the voice of the lady Nidhra, choked by sobs, reached his ears as if from a great distance. "She had taken to do that of late... used to stay there for hours, until I told her it was time to eat or sleep... I... I called her... She did not hear me... I touched her arm, and it was cold...She fell from the chair..." and back again to the loud, gasping sobs. "She... she fell..."

Inziladûn advanced towards the bed, like someone who has been posessed by a spell. He lost no time wondering if his father would have been surprised at his sudden appearance, or if he would be angry at his repeated breaches of protocol. She was dead. How could she be dead? She was healthy. She was young.

_She had promised._

"What did you do to her?" he hissed, turning to face Gimilzôr. His father´s eyes widened, too shocked at his words to give an immediate reaction. Ignoring the laws of prudence that had been engraved in his mind throughout the years like a second nature, Inziladûn seized the opportunity to look into them, in search of an indice of his guilt.

At once, a wave of pain shook him. It was a smothered, twisted and complicated pain, yet intense and sharp as the edge of a knife. He tried to find more, but Gimilzôr regained his composure, and his shock became a terrible anger.

"Grief has made you forget your place." he stated, dignified and regal in spite of everything. _Anything before losing his composure in public... even if his wife´s corpse was lying in front of his eyes._ "Because of this, I am willing to forgive you this time."

Unable to look at him any longer, Inziladûn forced himself to regain a grip on his senses, and fell to his knees in front of his mother´s bed. She was so beautiful, even in death. No - even _more_ in death; she was now fairer than she had ever been in life. Her features were at last free of the shadow of grief, in an inert semblance of peace.

Where could she have gone now? Had she passed beyond the Circles of the World as Valandil had said, and what was there for her to find? Inziladûn tried desperately to hold to the belief that she was happy, but the uncertainty of it all tore at his insides.

Images flooded his mind, of a sunny garden, the soft scent of an embrace, a smile and a whispered tale. He saw her, young and grieving, curled upon her bed while her body shook with sobs. Her joyful smile, a tired face and a whisper in his ear.

_I will wait for you._

He felt broken. He was lying in the dark, unable to understand for the agonising span of a moment. Why had she broken her promise? What had taken place between those stone walls while he rode to the West, free to discover the world?

_Had hope deserted her as she languished year after year, away from all those that she loved?_

Inziladûn recalled the words of Eärendur, as they both talked of the past in a secret library of dusty scrolls. _A last chance to have a Prince of our bloodline..._ _to fight the shadows..._ the power to save Númenor, the sacrifice of everything for the sake of this sacred mission. First, he was overcome with anger, as he realised that without those high-flowing concepts, Inzilbêth would have still been alive, smiling with the rest of her kin under the trees of _malinornë_. And then, he felt the need to laugh like a madman, because Inzilbêth´s greatest sacrifice had had nothing to do with the lords of Andunië, or Númenor, or the Valar, and deep inside, he suddenly knew.

_I knew that you would never be in his favour as long as you were my son._

_A woman´s strength breaking down, a small, trembling child in his arms._

She had done it for him. For _him_ \- so he would be heir to the throne of Númenor, and King, and be one day free from the shadow that had engulfed her.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, Inziladûn took her hand, cold and rigid like the ivory statue of the Goddess, and as lost to him as the Star-Kindler who sat upon the sacred mountain of Taniquetil. Then, he bowed deeply, and forced the words to come out of his mouth in the shape of a trembling whisper.

"Thank you, Mother. Thank you."

Suddenly, a powerful flash of a smile upon an oval face crossed his mind. Something strange slipped into his grip, warm and unexpected.

After he made sure that his father had not noticed, Inziladûn gathered back his silent, raging defiance, and hid his mother´s most precious jewel under his sleeve.

\-----

**Author´s Random Notes:** You have maybe heard the words of the litany before... some of them, anyway. The "Vision" is the most awfully famous cliché to depict a conversion since the beginning of the existence of the religions of choice. And yes, so I introduced hierogamia in my fic. You have not seen anything yet. ;)

Thanks to my readers!


	12. Alone

_Nor can the Valar take away the gifts of Ilúvatar. The Eldar, you say, are unpunished, and even those who rebelled do not die. Yet that is to them neither reward nor punishment, but the fulfillment of their being. They cannot escape, and are bound to this world, never to leave it so long as it lasts, for its life is theirs..._

Inziladûn paused in the laborious reading, forcing his hands not to fidget in an excitement that covered more shattering emotions. The page was old and worn out, and he had to hold it with reverent care as he deciphered the ancient texts scribbled in its margins with the spidery script of Fëanor.

As he became acquainted with Eärendur´s book, back when he considered it a triumph to make sense of an isolated word in a paragraph, the first thing that struck him had been how the mysterious names of the ancient kings, words that he had seen in scrolls, and even words of everyday salutations that he had trouble to learn as a child because of their raspy, alien sound, had suddenly acquired a sense in the tongue of the Elves. _Eär_ , the Sea. _Mir,_ the Jewel. _Cir-_ the Ship.

_Eru-_ the Creator.

Then, as he had progressed, he had realised that it was not just the names. He had devoured the legends of Beleriand, and found reflections of their own myths, the ones he had been taught as a child and later found irrational and contrived, restored to their real signification. The duel between Melkor and Fingolfin had taken place, but the Elf King had not been sly and arrogant; he had made a last, desperate stand for his people. The " _flames unnumbered, and creatures of fire_ " had really sprung from Melkor´s power, in the battle known as the Dagor Bragollach. That story which was told in such extensive detail, the most beloved of Elves and Men, of Lúthien and Beren and their struggle for a love that was forbidden by the laws of the kindreds, had been reduced in Númenorean lore to a mere tale for children, where a man sought for his lost wife in the Realm of the Dead. And, though he had won her through his song, in the end he had lost her again- a proof of the loss of faith of later men.

In Inziladûn´s days, the very name of Elves was despised by the men of Númenor. And yet in the past, it had been those same men who had slept in exhaustion after escaping the lands of darkness, and were befriended by an Elf who came to them under the dim light of the campfire. Before the Elves had taught them, showed them their magnificent cities and the beautiful works of their hands they had been nothing, known nothing at all. Inziladûn compared this to something he had heard about a sucessful goldsmith of Armenelos, who refused to acknowledge his master, pretending in his pride that nobody had taught him his technique as a boy. And yet, he had to wonder if those Men who built taller than the palaces of Beleriand had really learned everything that the Elves could teach to them.

The Elves, as he understood them, had to be creatures of a mysterious perfection. They lived with the Valar, and the Valar, according to the Ainulindalë, sprung from the Great God himself. Purity could not be tainted by immundice, -this was a basic philosophical principle-, and a Vala would not lay eyes upon something as imperfect, changing and drawn to base desires as a mortal man.

This was why they had summoned the Elves, and the Elves, in turn, had been assigned the role of intermediaries, transmitting those teachings to the Secondborn who could not lay a foot on the Blessed Realm. The Elder Spirits had mingled their blood with that of Elves, and Elves had mingled their blood to that of mortals. And from their union a race had been born, higher in perfection than the others, who had subdued almost the entire world of Men –such should the extent of Elven power be!

Still, all those legends had been written by no Elf, but by a Man of Númenor –maybe one of Eärendur´s ancestors, thousands of years after the real events. Sometimes, Inziladûn doubted that the man had really understood the scope of what he was writing, the real essence and motives of the beings who took part in the stories... and even that he had not changed things to a language that Men could easily understand. Some contradictions had left him baffled, like the account of the rebellion against the Valar. It was shocking to believe that the Valar would have left the race of Men forever in darkness, and that the Elves had left Valinor against their will.

In time, he had reached the belief that it had simply not been the time, that those elusive natures had felt the claim of fulfillment before it was their due. If the course of events had been properly followed, the Valar would have imprisoned Melkor again, -as indeed they did-, but instead of waiting for their action the Noldor had rushed to fight him themselves, trusting their own greatness. They had not been able to wait until the world was in peace and free from the shadow, and they were free to pass their teachings to the younger race.

And now, in turn, those valiant Noldor had been forgotten and despised by the fickle and proud minds of the men of Númenor. It had been a matter of shock and disgust for Inziladûn since the beginning, when he discovered the extent of Men´s ingratitude and forgetfulness. The Elves had done no evil to them; if all, they must have been ensnared by the shadow of Melkor that still lay in Middle-Earth. There had been a moment when they grew too vain and refused to acknowledge their masters, jealous of their immortality and the primacy of their race. Proud Kings had consigned the old scrolls to oblivion, and all those people, whose lives were like falling leaves when measured to the immortality of Elves, had forgotten and believed in lies.

_Immortality..._ That it had been the first word whispered in their ears by the insidious shadow of Melkor became apparent in the chronicle that he was reading now, an account of the messengers from the Valar that came to Tar-Atanamir. And yet those evil Elves had given their lives away freely in the past, both to join their fate to that of Men and to help them. There were some among them who even wished they could be allowed to die, like those who suffered from the power of the Unbreakable Oath.

But who would tell that truth to the crowd that gathered year after year in the sanctuaries, singing songs of praise for the Enemy of the World –he shuddered-, and begging him to give them years of life, and to preserve their immortal souls in the Void? Would he be believed if he yelled the words aloud, if he showed them the texts and proved how their customs, their legends, their language, were distorted shadows of the world of Elves, who were their ancient teachers, friends, and allies?

This had been his first impulse, when Eärendur´s words and his first readings brutally tore away the blindfold, and showed him a world whose existence he had not been able to suspect until now. Those people had been left in ignorance, yes, even his family, who ruled over them. If he showed them the truth, how could they _fail_ to understand?

Then, however, he thought about the lords of Andünié, and how they had been exiled and persecuted for their beliefs, and his naive ideas dissolved in a rush. Ar-Adunakhôr had officially established the cult of Melkor in all the lands of Númenor, after he had obtained his throne by invoking his name. There were too many matters of power, legitimacy and pride involved in the triumph of the Gods of Men.

_Melkor would never relinquish his hold so easily._

This brought him to the last, and more chilling thought. The Wave that was sent to him in dreams was not a nightmare, but the warning of some kind of misfortune that would fall upon Númenor if they continued to ignore their ancient sources of learning and virtue and turned to the enemy of all gods. And yet such an advertence had been sent only to his grandmother´s kin and to him, not to the King´s line as it would have been proper. The words of the forbidden chronicle at the end of the little book were not enough to explain this strange circumstance – according to the writer, probably Eärendur´s father or grandfather, the blood of the Kings had been weakened and foresight had been lost to them, but his own father was expert in the art of visions, and even had mastered the skill of provoking them himself with the sacred herb. Maybe Eru, or whoever of His intermediaries had chosen to send that particular vision to them, had seen in their divine clarividence that the lineage of Ar-Adunakhôr was definitely lost to them, that they would never do anything to fight against the many shadows –of Melkor, of darkness, of oblivion and of human despair – that had brought them to hold the Sceptre.

_That **he** would._

This had been hardest of all to accept - that the strange plans of Eärendur had been, indeed, laced with foresight. Inziladûn had grown to be true to their blood, and not, as it would have been expected, to that of his father and forefathers. Twenty-eight years of shadows had not been enough to turn him into a descendant of Ar-Adunakhôr to the despair of his kin. He had doubted, he had been skeptical, he had not accepted things that should have been upheld as part of his inheritance as heir to the throne of Númenor. He had not loved Melkor, or the smoke and smell of sacrifices. Ritual had made him impatient, men´s adoration made him awkward, as well as the luxurious artifice that had slowly lulled the conscience of the ancient Elven Allies asleep. And his only fall into error, his love for the Sea-Queen, had been the love for a ghost created by his own desires.

Now, at times he felt as if the years of searching and feeling unsatisfied had been precious time wasted in darkness. He had been chosen to show the people that their wishes were not gods, and that their past lay hidden from them. Once that he became King, nobody would be able to persecute or exile him for speaking the truth; as Eärendur had said, with him the blood of the Western lords and the power of the Sceptre would unite. He would be the only one able to dispel the clouds of ignorance, and free Númenor from the opressing ritual of gods and courtiers so it could become what it once was, the land of joyous seamen and adventurers that was so captivatingly described in the pages of the chronicle.

At other moments, however, the weight of this mission fell upon him as heavy lead, rather than vivifying wine. He remembered his father´s mistrust and cunning, his decision to give him a brother and his mother´s fears, and wondered if this could be naught but a first indice of what Gimilzôr would be able to do if he felt that his son had definitely escaped his grasp. He counted the years that he would have to wait, pretending to share their ignorance, to worship their altars while in fear of being betrayed. And he wondered if another man would one day rally the people who were besotted by lies of greatness and immortality and take the Sceptre away from him in the name of Melkor, as Ar-Adunakhôr had done.

_Would they want to accept the truth after so many years of darkness?_

Inziladûn took a sharp breath, and closed the book upon the table. There was always that point of his studies, when the conflicting pangs of eagerness and terror faded to a foggy feeling of impotence and confusion. He felt like he did during the vision that he had been granted in the Sacred Cave, trying to look into gleaming eyes that encompassed the whole world. Years, decades, stretched in front of his imagination like furious waves, together with the manouevres and dangers that he would one day have to face, the future of Númenor and the world of the Elves, while he was imprisoned between the narrow walls of his chambers in the Palace.

A strange sort of hallucination came upon him, and for a moment he wondered if his fate would be to fade away here before his time, leaving his promises unfulfilled as his mother had done.

Inziladûn shivered, recalling that pale, limp face that stared back at him from the bed. And then, again, Eärendur´s words that night, in the subterranean archive.

_It was necessary, Inziladûn._

Shaky hands grabbed the edge of the dusty wooden table, until he felt able to struggle to his feet. Shadows danced in front of his eyes, and he forced himself to focus in the dim light of the candle.

He had to breathe some air. Or else, he would go insane.

\----------

That same evening, Inziladûn decided to pay a visit to Maharbal, his old tutor. The son of the Prince had always felt awkward in the company of courtiers and airheaded young men of his own age, and this old man had been the closest to a friend that he had had in his rather solitary life. Nobody else in the Palace understood what could there be in common between the young heir and a low-ranking Palace servant of obscure origins who prided himself in having made his life quite difficult as a child – but Inziladûn´s respect for him was so great that he even refused to summon him, preferring to go himself to his modest quarters.

_If there was someone who could listen, it would be him._

As every other time, he received a warm welcome, and was immediately offered his customary seat in front of an ebony low table. Muttering a word of thanks, he sat down, while Maharbal told a round-faced elderly woman to bring two cups of Umbarian herb tea.

"It has been so long since you last came." the old man commented as they were left alone, in a tone of slight reproach. Inziladûn nodded in silence, but this answer did not seem to satisfy him. Shaking his head, he pointed an admonishing finger in his direction. "Your features are pale, and there are circles under your eyes. This is not good, neither for your health nor for your spirit. A wise man should mourn his loved ones with moderation."

The prince shook his head. That familiar, severe frown in the dark and wrinkled face almost managed to make him smile. Almost.

"It is not mourning what keeps me awake at night." he began, with some hesitation. Before he could speak further, however, the red beads of the curtain doors made a tinkling noise, and the woman came back with a jar that smelled faintly of jasmine. "I.., am studying." he continued, with a prudent half-look in her direction.

Maharbal did not even blink.

"In this case, you must know that, though I have always been the first who has tried to make you understand the importance of focused effort, there _are_ limits even to a student´s zeal."

"I apologise." Inziladûn said calmly. "But there are things... worrying me of late."

The old man´s eyes followed the woman´s motions as she served the tea, with an absorbed interest that had provoked his pupil´s curiosity in the past. Once, he recalled, he had even risked sounding stupid to ask him for the reason, but Maharbal had merely laughed and told him that tea was sacred for the Umbarians. The austerity of that man was legendary and almost outrageous for the refined courtiers of Armenelos, but to surround himself with things that reminded him of the city of his birth had always been the only pleasure that he allowed himself.

Inziladûn´s eyes wandered through the dark, alien-looking place to which he had grown so accustomed. The shelves that did not contain dusty books were full of clay pots with aromatic plants, that Maharbal used to tend everyday with something akin to reverence. Bead curtains hung from doorframes and windows instead of the velvet and silk that was usual in the Court, and the floor under his feet was entirely covered in rugs.

And still, the strangest thing of all, which had unsettled him since he was a child, were the statues that lay upon the windowsills. They were bronze images of the gods, of an uniqueness that bordered on blasphemy. One of them showed Ashtarte-Uinen fully naked, with a multitude of breasts hanging from her chest –the Old Protectress of the Southern colony, Maharbal said, though Inziladûn wondered if she was not rather a goddess of the desert barbarians, from whom slanderous tongues made the old man descend.

Several others showed Melkor, whose representation for cultual purposes was forbidden in Númenor. One of them, especially fascinating, pictured the moment of the Sacrifice, with a long serpent crawling out of his burning feet. And in the centre, the greatest scandal of all, stood a representation of Eru himself, sitting upon His throne.

Maharbal had always professed to be against irrational superstitions, and yet he kept those Umbarian statues in his own room. Considering what he had come to tell him, Inziladûn could not help but watch them in a newfound apprehension for a moment. But then, the old man´s eyes sought his, and he saw nothing but the man whose wisdom he had always admired.

He swallowed deeply.

"Things that worry you since you came back from Andünié?"

Surprised at his old tutor´s perceptiveness, Inziladûn needed a second or two to react and nod. Maharbal made a gesture to the waitress, who bowed and left them alone.

"How do you know?" he asked, feeling childish. The old man shrugged.

"I was told that the Lord Hannon," -at this, he made a slight gesture of respect in honour of his superior-" commented that you had been unusually quiet and absent on your way home. You were even about to lead your horse down a cliff, he said."

"He _did_?" Embarrassment gave way to puzzlement, and then to a slight alarm. "And the Prince heard it?"

"You should have no doubt about that." Maharbal nodded dryly. "You knew that his mission was to follow you close."

"Still..." Inziladûn began, then interrupted himself. Of course he had known – but, taken by the conflict that those first revelations had stirred in his soul, he had grown careless. He cursed between his teeth.

"I did not teach you to utter those horrid words in public or private." the old man scolded him. Then, however, his severe tone showed a slight waver of doubt at his next words."Have you come to tell me things that... those people said to you back then?"

Inziladûn bit his lip. _Now or never._ He gathered all his courage, intent on phrasing what he had never dared to say to anyone before.

"There are, indeed, some things that I do not understand." he ventured, carefully. Maharbal took a hearty sip of his tea, and gave him an encouraging nod. "Some people in Númenor believe that Melkor... the Great God, is not as we think he is."

"That he is the incarnation of Evil." the old man completed, to Inziladûn´s renewed shock. "Indeed, this is the belief of the Elf-friends, who were exiled by the King."

Inziladûn drank a bit of his own tea, feeling his confidence grow at this unexpected show of knowledge.

"You will maybe say that they are traitors, and that they have turned their backs to Melkor because he is the King´s god." he started, more enthusiastically. "And yet, where does our faith come from? Has anybody ever seen the Great God? How could we know how he _really_ is?"

"Priests say that they can." Maharbal objected, matter-of-factly. "The Prince, your father, can."

This observation did not cool the fire of the young man´s skepticism. His eyes trailed briefly across the monstruous serpent of bronze, and he shook his head rebelliously.

"But _we_ are not priests."

For a moment, it almost seemed that Maharbal was going to frown at his impudence. Only after a while, his wrinkled features relaxed with an indulgent snort.

"You have been like this since you were a child." he said. "Always mistrusting everything that you could not see with your own eyes, or explain to your satisfaction. I must confess that I cannot very well believe that you have been won over with stories of Baalim and Elves."

_I have_ _ **seen**_ _the Valar,_ Inziladûn thought, remembering his vision of the cave. _And things have been explained to my satisfaction, for the first time in my life._

Still, he had to keep a semblance of prudence, so he kept those thoughts to himself.

"The context does not matter. I do not relish the thought that I might be worshipping an incarnation of Evil –that is all." he said instead. His attempt at flippancy was not very sucessful – he had always been argumentative.

Maharbal shrugged, somewhat impatiently.

"Such big words! Young men such as you often fail to see things in perspective. No, I have never seen the Lord Melkor. Does this matter to me? Our prayers are answered, whether we are worshipping correctly or not. Númenor is prosperous. People are happy. Though they would never admit to such a thing." he ironised. "I will try to explain it to you with other words, so you might understand it better. I do not think there is such thing as a good or evil god, like this, in our absolute human terms. A god is good if he fulfills his obligations towards his people, whether he has fought against other gods, broken their lamps" Inziladûn´s brain caught the alusion, and he was forced to blink, "or antagonised the Elves."

"How can you say such a thing?" The young prince was appalled. "You always told me that I should set all my efforts in perfecting my character, no matter what other people thought about me."

" _You_ are not a god. Or so I often taught you to remember." Maharbal replied.

Involuntarily, one of Inziladûn´s hands was raised to caress the raspy coarseness of his beard. His old tutor had been the one who had encouraged him in his decision to keep it, when the others expressed their disapproval – and he had said that keeping a beard was a good way for a man to remember that he was as close to the animal as he was to the god. _Which you, of all people, may have need to remember one day,_ he sometimes added, sententiously.

"But I rever a god as an image of perfection! How would he deserve our worship if he had committed crimes like the most vile of men?"

Maharbal let go of a sharp sigh.

"For a man who complains of not being able to see Melkor with his own eyes, you seem to be sure of quite a lot of things!"

Inziladûn shook his head in frustration.

"You are deflecting my arguments!"

The old man´s eyes narrowed in warning. At last, the prince thought, he had managed to touch a chord of his pride.

"All right. You wanted me to give you an argument, and I will. "he announced, drinking what remained of his tea. "We are men, and, as you rightly pointed out, not even priests. We will never lay eyes upon a god, feel his presence, or know the truth about him. _This_ is why, what matters in our relationship with the divine is the things that we can grasp – the favours that we receive, and the rituals that we offer to him for the good of our society. Because for us, there will never be anything beyond this. It is infinitely more productive for us to worry for our own virtue than for the virtue of a god that we cannot even see."

For a while, Inziladûn forced himself to reflect on those words, staring at the cold green liquid that remained on his cup. They were wise – and their power of conviction was almost fascinating, inviting him to let go of the turmoils that assaulted his mind and go back to the simple routine of giving and receiving. And still, something in his heart refused to surrender to this escape path.

"On the contrary, I feel that the god´s virtue is of great concern for our own. "he argued. "An evil god, even if we cannot see or understand his wickedness, will seek to corrupt us and our society. Back in the old days of our kingdom "he continued before the old man could interrupt him again "we were friends with the Elves. I know this. Our Kings had Elven names, the Elven-tongues were spoken in the Palace, and we followed Elven customs. And we were happy. There was a great joy in living and travelling, and discovering new things, and exchanging gifts with the other kindreds. The barbarians of Middle-Earth revered and loved us, while now they only seek to break our dominance through war. We talked face to face to each other, like equals, like friends, while now we must lower our faces and bow, and mumble empty formularies through a chain of intermediaries! We only worshipped Eru in the pure snows of the Meneltarma, and were content with it, while now we beg on our knees for the slightest needs of our daily lives, and swallow pestilent fumes!"

Vaguely conscious that he had lost his restraint, Inziladûn felt a pang of warning in his stomach, and immediately forced the torrent of imprudent words to stop. Maharbal´s eyes widened for an instant, and his hands increased their grip over the empty cup. For the first time since he had met him as a child of five, the young man surprised a shadow of fear crossing his features.

_He had betrayed himself._

"This is... well, a point of view." the Umbarian finally replied, though his argumentative ardour felt a little forced. "Not everybody would share this opinion on things, if asked. How many Númenoreans would tell you that they preferred toiling for the products that they need for their daily lives, instead of receiving the imports of the colonies and the tributes of the barbarians? How many inhabitants of the cities would give away their luxury, the refinements that they can buy in the markets, the splendour of the palaces and temples in benefit of a simpler and more virtuous life? Would they choose to greet a king wearing a ridiculous beard in the streets, over the magnificence of the Court processions? "He shook his head, somewhat sadly. "Alas, my friend! This is not so obvious."

Inziladûn swallowed, a little affected by the discomfort that he felt oozing from the older man´s soul. Gruff and strict as he was, there had never been another father in his life, but this discussion was piercing the thick skin of the Umbarian.

Had he hurt him?

_Did he feel disappointed?_

He felt a painful sensation of abandonment, crossing him like a cold shiver. Was this how Eärendur, how Valandil had to feel at every moment of their lives? All those broken statues, dead mothers, lost friendships.

_He was alone._

"I am sorry for disturbing you." he muttered, making an attempt to stand on his feet. Immediately, and with a quick movement that seemed almost impossible in a man of his age, Maharbal´s hard hand pressed against his shoulder.

"Look at me, please."

Inziladûn had never heard his tutor plead before. A bit reticently, he obeyed - and as he met the old man´s eyes, a wave of sadness shook him to the core.

"Maharbal..." he began. But he did not know how to continue. He did not know the words that were needed to make this man understand and accept, or even bring him comfort. Suddenly, he was at complete loss.

"Before you leave, I want you to know one thing, and to promise that you will never forget it." Maharbal interrupted him, saving him the embarrassment. His tone was so intense that it made his austere, stern countenance look briefly like a contradiction. "My life is old and worth nothing, and I would gladly give it away a thousand times before any harm could come to you." He fell momentarily silent, and the thunderstruck Inziladûn could hear a slight choke before he was able to continue. "But you must be careful with what you say and do. _Much_ more careful than this. The priests of Melkor are powerful, and they would be very alarmed to hear a future heir to the Sceptre talk in this strain. And Inziladûn, my lord prince... _please, do not make me say it_."

The young man felt a knot gather in his throat, and nodded. A warmth was seeping inside him, in response to the man´s quiet distress.

He felt humbled.

"Forgive me. I... will be careful."

Maharbal accepted this answer in thankful silence. His thin lips curved in a slight smile, dark as the desert sands.

_I am on my own,_ Inziladûn thought, as, minutes later, his feet brought him down the corridors and galleries in the direction of his own chambers. _But not alone._

Not yet.


	13. Interlude II: Shadows

Interlude week. Sorry. 

**Interlude II: Shadows**  

_Year 3083 – 51st year of the reign of Ar-Sakalthôr_

Sometimes, in my dreams, I see her face. Her features are sharply chiseled and haughty, like those of a gull perched on the sea-battered cliffs of Andúnië, and she looks at me with disdain.

She was beautiful, they say, with huge and stirring eyes. Her face was soft and her smile kind, but never for me. Never in my dreams.

Maybe I have imagined it.

The first face I can remember in waking life, out of an early blur of severe ladies with silver on their hair, is that of a man with black eyes. For years he watched me, loved me, turned me into what I am now –an imperfect mirror of perfection, never worthy enough; a shadow of his powerful reign.

Was _he_ ever a shadow of him, too? Did he ever learn his secrets and carry his every bidding, in a distant day before I was old enough to understand? And if he did, how did he break away and shatter the silver prison of hopes into a thousand of brilliant and cutting shards? What did he do to fill the black eyes with fear and loathing, to deny their love until it turned into hatred?

He is the conspirer, the traitor who befriends Western enemies with gull features behind the King´s back. The apostate who smiles in soft disdain as he kneels at the feet of the gods of Númenor, while he surrenders his soul to the foul spirits of the Western shores. The sharp glance that tears apart the minds of men, the temerity that climbs to high places in the dark hours of the night. He is miles ahead of me, keeper of precious secrets, and will not even turn back and look at those whose respect he does not need.

_And this is why I hate him._

Tonight, I will throw a last party before my departure. I will sing and dance, and share my wine with my friends until I am drunk, and later I will share the bed of a lady whose features I will not be able to remember afterwards.

At dawn, I will not be at the courtyard of the Tree with my escort at the appointed time, and his disdain will maybe turn briefly to annoyance for the delay before he turns his back to me and rides to the front with his friend. They will exchange accomplice glances, marvelling at my stupidity and my extravagance, and still, if they cared to ask, I would tell them that one day we all will be taken by our doom, and then I will be remembered as nothing but a shadow.

But beware of shadows, Inziladûn. Beware of shadows.


	14. Turning Points

First, he turned his gaze to the West. He stood firmly, in silence, feeling the aching brilliance of a sundering sea pass him by and disappear in a vertiginous blur. He saw a white shore, and there was a radiance that emanated from the sand the instant before a wave covered it with its foamy embrace.

A pair of naked feet, carved with a mysterious perfection, trod upon the shore to meet the Sea. He followed them in mindless fascination, then felt the danger and forced himself to look aside. For a brief moment, his soul shook with the agony of bereavement, but soon his shivers surrendered to the warmth of triumph. He had defeated temptation.

Surer of himself now, and confident with this power, he looked towards the East. Armenelos was there; an altar of beauty veiled by the fumes of iniquity and the chants of ignorance. He saw a mighty king who held a sceptre of rubies and commanded more ships and soldiers than there were grains of sand upon his shores, and who hid in the darkness of his chambers in fear of his gaze. His back was guarded by the terrible arms of the greatest harbour ever wrought, outstretched in the sea like jaws that tried to engulf the land of Middle-Earth.

Then, there was more water. Stormy and dangerous, this one, whirling in dark pools and exploding in jets of white in a capricious sucession. And then another coast, lone and barren except for two jewelled standards driven into its heart by the hands of foreigners. One of them a mighty city, terror of the enemies of the Númenoréans, full of soldiers and merchants and dark practices. The other, a city without land, floating on the waters with its thousand white towers, in quiet disdain of the barbarian land that it faced and faithful only to the island that had once been its mother, whose lines were lost behind the horizon.

But he did not stop here, either. His glance sought further, for blurred silhouettes that escaped even the comprehension of his own people. He saw tribes who lived in caves and rough cottages, of dark-skinned people with painted bodies and fair-skinned people wrapped in furs. He saw proud chieftains who sagged under the weight of the gold, gems and jewels of the bright-eyed foreigners, while they allowed their own people to be enslaved in their mines. Some resisted and fled, and became ferocious tribes that lived on the peaks of the mountains and survived through rapine. Others undertook a long journey without return, and after escaping the far-reaching shadow of Melkor they became tied in a worse darkness, behind the mountains of Mordor.

_Mordor..._

Yes, he would go even there, in spite of the whispers that he heard behind his back, asking for caution. Past the iron bulk of the Black Gate, an army of mutilated beings was growing in the darkness of caves like a swarm of murderous insects. Sitting on his black tower, the Enemy waited.

And far beyond, untouched by the stain of this marred land, a kingdom of light stood still, draining its last days in the slow harmony of forgotten memories. Its beauty was dim and vivid at the same time, like a dream of Men, and he felt the need to weep. Once again, he sought for control.

His gaze focused on a palace that stood above the rest. It highest tower shone under the sun, delicate like crystal but hard like diamond. And inside this tower was a creature of light and wisdom, fair and noble, a hero of legend.

Grey eyes, old as mountains, sought his with an unvoiced question that shook his soul. His hands increased their grip, their knuckles white as he was forced to lower his head as if he had been blinded by an intense radiance.

Slowly, however, he became able to master this emotion, and forced himself to stare back into the eyes of the king of the tower. He swallowed the knot in his throat.

" _I am Inziladûn, son of Gimilzôr_ " he said, in a voice that came out firm and proud, without a hint of a stammer " _heir to the throne of Númenor_."

\----------

As soon as he was finished, the dark hall echoed with an almost imperceptible sigh. Inziladûn stared at the pale faces of Eärendur and Valandil, and saw a great tension dissolve into looks of newfound admiration and relief.

Eärendur moved towards him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You were magnificent. We were not wrong to hope."

Inziladûn nodded in mute thanks. He felt shaken by the feeling of euphoria that had run through his veins like a river of molten lava, and this subterranean place felt cold and humid in comparison. Shivering, he tried to force his body and soul back to normal, until he reached a semblance of stability.

"... Must leave now." he mumbled. Then, in a steadier voice, "We... may be discovered."

Eärendur shook his head.

"Sit down. You are tired. Númendil is with him."

A part of Inziladûn, the part that felt bereaved and cold, wished to surrender to those calming words. They knew what to do, they were wise and experienced. But the fear and the urgence tore once again at his insides, _the risk was too great_. Gimilzôr had not sent his favourite son to the lair of his enemies so he would quietly enjoy his time next to his brother.

He took a sharp breath, filling his lungs with the humid earth and the salt of the sea. Then, he stood up, and gave a tentative step. A faint dizziness was still over him, but as he walked his second circle around the room, it began to disappear.

"I am leaving." he announced, in a tone that allowed for no discussions. Valandil´s eyes widened for a second, but Eärendur´s lips curved in a slight smile, and he shook his head in defeat.

"As you wish, then. No one can accuse you of carelessness, that much is certain. Besides" he added, turning to his son, "we have been informed of enough worrying tidings by our royal kinsman here."

Valandil seemed to reflect on this for a moment, then gave way and nodded somberly.

"This establishment of close ties between the Royal House and the Merchant Princes of Middle-Earth is a matter for worry, indeed." he said, with a grim look. "Alas! Such an alliance would have been unheard-of even in the times of the blasphemous king! I hope it will not bring danger to our family again."

Eärendur sighed.

"I always bade you have in mind that our return home was a temporary measure." he scolded lightly. "Have a good night, my lord Inziladûn."

Inziladûn nodded in acknowledgement, and left father and son to speak of their worries together. As he took the stairs to return to the surface of the gardens, he felt the cool breeze wash the last remains of his befuddlement away.

_Again,_ he could not help but muse, _again the gardens at night._

He had never forgotten that other time, twenty years ago, when a new knowledge tore him open as he wandered aimlessly around the Elven trees. Never again had he felt so lost –so uprooted as that young man who had not yet found his place, and chased after elusive ghosts created by fancy.

On his way, he passed through the clearing of the _malinornë_ trees, whose silver leaves were being cradled by the wind. He stopped for a moment to admire them, and realised, in surprise, that he was not alone.

"I have seen you like this before." a soft voice whispered behind his back.

Inziladûn turned towards Artanis with a silent greeting gesture.The woman, however, passed him by, heading instead for the centre of the clearing. As she reached her favourite place, she sat down on the grass and beckoned to him.

He shook his head, suddenly feeling bothered.

"I must leave." he told her. "Gimilkhâd..."

"Númendil and Emeldir are both with him." she replied before he could end his sentence. "They are playing chess. Númendil has defeated him seven times and he is quite determined to get the better of the crafty Elf-friend at least once."

The chuckle was brief and tense, and it didn´t even reach his eyes. For a moment he stood there, thinking of what he could say, until it dawned upon him that he had no real excuse to leave, now. So he sat next to her.

"I wish him luck, in spite of the odds." he joked. Intellect was not among his younger brother´s main strengths - they both knew that.

Artanis considered him with half-closed eyes. A small, sad smile spread through her graceful features, reflecting the silvery light of the starlit leaves.

"Do you remember?" she asked, after a thoughtful pause. "It was here where we first met."

"Not quite." Inziladûn answered, in a rigurous and –so he thought almost at the same time as the words escaped his lips- vain concern for exactitude. "It was upon the threshold of your house, when you came to greet me and your father."

He saw her bit her lip, in a brief flash of anxiousness. But there was no anger, or even annoyance at his correction.

Still, her next words were strangely muffled, and came only after a long while.

"So you are going to marry upon your return."

It was not a question. Inziladûn shook his head, feeling again the need to clarify.

"Not yet. I am going to- find a wife. Or, which is the same, my father will."

Her eyes sought his in curiosity, though her features remained veiled.

"Do you know who she will be?"

"I have no idea."

Artanis smiled.

"Many women must be already planning to poison their rivals."

Inziladûn snorted at the ridiculous idea.

"Not many. Only those of the line of Elros. And among them, only those who can stomach an overdose of hair."

"I find your overdose of hair quite- attractive."

"Really?" He arched his eyebrow. "And where is your poison?"

Artanis did not answer. Instead of this, her eyes became lost in the distance, in a renewed silence that first Inziladûn interpreted as thoughtful.

Then, however, he caught the reflection of a tear, glistening over the surface of her cheek. His surprise became shock, and then realisation, and cowardice, and a brief, strong need to flee that he managed to master.

Finally, what he did was to lay a hand on her shaking shoulder, searching her eyes with an honest expression of regret.

"I am sorry." he said. She shook her head, and wiped her face with the points of her fingers.

"So you knew."

A long sigh, turning to a tremulous smile.

"And still you said nothing." he realised, with increasing bewilderment. "Why?"

A raspy laugh escaped her throat convulsively.

"So penetrating for most things, yet so blind for others!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes in a poor semblance of humour. Inziladûn nodded slowly, accepting the rebuke.

Indeed, he should have known. It was something that he had been well aware of since so many years ago, since before he had even seen her for the first time, or admired the unreal, quiet grace of her movements.

"My father would rather marry me to a Middle-Earth woman." he finally voiced it, shifting slightly in his sitting position. She let go of a forced smile, wiping her eyes again.

"I hope it will not have to come to that! I heard that they barely outlive their wedding feasts."

"Less chances to beget _another_ inconvenient heir, then."

Artanis nodded, falling in a silent mood. The sea breeze blew through her hair, dishevelling it, and she embraced her knees for protection against the chill.

For a brief second, Inziladûn felt the full, anguishing weight of the impossibility of his situation. There was nothing that he could say either to make her happy, or to apologise for something that was not his fault. He could not give her hope, and yet an ominous voice whispered in his ear that this would be the last time that they would see each other alone.

A rustle of silk at his side alerted him to the fact that she was back on her feet.

"Wait." he said, before she could flee to the safety of her chambers. Artanis paused, but did not turn back. "You have always been very dear to me, Artanis. "He swallowed, for once in his life feeling clumsy in his choice of words. "You... have my mother´s eyes."

Slowly, the woman gathered enough courage to face him again. There were no tears on her face anymore, but the wet radiance on her cheeks still remained.

She was smiling.

"It is quite a honour," she mouthed, with a deep bow, "to be compared to what you most loved."

Then, she swallowed deeply, forcing her eyes to look into his.

"I do not blame you, Inziladûn."

With this, she bowed and left, tiptoeing across the garden clearing. _Like a ghost of another age among billows of white_ , the unbidden thought came to his mind, and he felt a strange melancholy seize him.

\----------

When he finally reached his chambers in the guest wing of the house, Inziladûn was not in the mood for conversation. His dismay was therefore great as he realised that there was someone else in his antechamber, a hunched figure leaning on the windowsill to look at the gardens below. Dark, unbraided curls fell down his back, striking a contrast with the blue of his cloak.

The first course of action that offered itself for this situation was to ignore him. His brother had never sought him for any good purpose –in fact, he had rarely sought him for anything at all.

But, as he was about to pass him by and retire to the privacy of his bedroom, it was Gimilkhâd himself who turned away from the window, wrinkling his nose in faint distaste.

"That strange light that glows among the trees... it _cannot_ be natural!" he mumbled, touching his Hand amulet as if to ward off something unseen. Inziladûn shook his head in irritation; the superstitious streak was among the things that his brother had inherited from their father.

"They call it starlight." he mumbled, deliberately cutting in his demeanour. Before he could reach the doorstep, however, his brother´s voice called to him again.

"Wait!"

Inziladûn took a sharp breath. The Seeing Stone had left him exhausted -Eärendur had been right back then, though he had downplayed his words with the help of the energies that the feeling of duty had lent to his body- and the tears of Artanis haunted his conscience. It was not his fault, as much as it had not been his choice, and still an insidious voice in his mind wondered if this resigned, accepting coldness had been all that she had deserved.

"What is it?" asked, forcing himself to keep a steady tone. His brother pointed him towards a seat, and when he did not follow his invitation, his mouth thinned in an ominous line.

"I know where you have been just now." he announced. Inziladûn felt his heart sink for a moment, then caught himself before a sign of weakness could betray him. He quickly thought back – when they were finished with the Seeing Stone, he had been told that Gimilkhâd was in the company of Númendil and his fiancée. So there was only one valid option: he had somehow managed to get wind of his escapade with Artanis.

He cleared his throat.

"You must be glad to learn that I am human too when it comes to women."The brief, forced lightheartedness turned to a frown. "But it is none of your concern."

Gimilkhâd´s eyes widened in some surprise. For a while, he stared at him, as if searching for some kind of untold secret embedded in his countenance.

_Had it been a bluff?_

Finally, his brother´s features hardened again in a determined expression.

"Do not play me in circles." he hissed. With somewhat theatrical movements, he took a paper note from under his cloak and put it in front of his eyes. This time, Inziladûn _really_ froze – it was the Sindarin note that he had been slipped that very afternoon.

Once again, his exhaustion was forcefully expelled by sharp alert, his well-honed instinct of survival.

"I know nothing about this."

"It was in your room."

_So he had been searching his things._ On their father´s orders, no doubt

"This room is not _my_ room. I am no more accountable for the books and papers that you may find in it than you are for the _unnatural light_ that filters through your window."he snorted derisively. "And in any case, you are certainly not welcome to it."

With this he turned back, intending to finish the discussion. As he gave his first step in the direction of his bedroom, however, he felt a hand pulling his cloak, and was forced to turn back again to face Gimilkhâd´s furious expression.

"Do you know what it says?"

"I do not."

"How did it go? Let me remember... _whatever the King cannot understand is treason_ , were those the words?"

Inziladûn curved his mouth in a show of disdain.

"Do not try to quote Ar-Adunakhôr at me! You never bothered to even learn his history!"

His brother snorted, a raspy, irate sound. Then, he let him go, and began to pace in nervous circles.

"Oh, of course not." he spat. "Because you are so clever and I am such a fool, isn´t it so? Or this is what you seem to believe, at least, treating me with contempt and engaging in treasonous activities under my very nose! You think I am such an idiot as to ignore what you do while you send your accomplice to keep me distracted with a stupid chess match?"

"You are a bad loser."

Though he endeavoured to smile, by now Inziladûn was beginning to feel worse about the situation. Gimilkhâd knew something _else._ He had discovered some sort of indice, powerful enough as to give him such an unflinching confidence in face to his brother´s derision.

And he resented him, too. His very eyes were glowering with a vindictive light as he set them on him. For most of his life, Inziladûn had been vaguely aware of his brother´s mistrust and envy, but until today he had not been able to measure their scope.

He swallowed.

"I do not know what this note says, Gimilkhâd." he assured him, with a serious tone devoided of any flippancy. The younger man smiled, but it was a dangerous smile of confirmation and triumph.

"Well, then... maybe _I_ might enlighten you myself."

Inziladûn blinked, taken by surprise.

"Do not be absurd! Of course you cannot. This is some form of _Elvish!_ "

"You think you are the only one who knows things that normal people do not know? It certainly would suit your arrogance." Gimilkhâd replied. "But I will let you know that Father knows Elvish well enough, as well as this Ar-Adunakhôr, with whose history you are apparently much better acquainted than I am. The Kings are less stupid than what you and _they_ think, Inziladûn. You may forbid everything that you cannot understand, but your power will be greater if you _do_ understand it. And even greater if they do not know that you know, I might add."

The shock that Inziladûn felt was briefly mingled with a stubborn rest of hurt, that he still hadn´t managed to discard through years of private schemes. To tell this secret to Gimilkhâd while he was left in ignorance –yet another evidence of his father´s cold mistrust of him.

Mistrust that he had not always deserved.

" _My lord Inziladûn, we will be waiting for you this evening in the hall of Seeing_. _Make sure you are not followed._ " Gimilkhâd took the paper and read, flawlessly. As the final realisation slowly sunk into Inziladûn´s mind, he was filled with horror.

_His brother knew Elvish._ His brother, their father´s less brilliant shadow, was learned in the Ancient Tongues.

His mind raced quickly. If Gimilzôr learned of this, and read this note with his sharp suspicion, he would find grounds to exile Eärendur and his family again, if not worse. He too, would not escape unscathed. And if the Sceptre got wind of the existence of the Seeing Stones of the Elves...

His pallor did not pass unnoticed to Gimilkhâd´s eyes. Inziladûn could feel the gloating behind a thin mask, as he, too, had ceased to care about the fragile laws of propriety that had always ruled their exchanges. For the sake of something so important, he thought, he would be ready to sacrifice his pride and beg, but as things stood he doubted that he would find any mercy from his triumphant brother.

_And what if he resorted to threats?_ Gimilkhâd knew that he was alone among enemies, and very far from the protection of Armenelos and Gimilzôr...

Almost as soon as he had conceived this thought, he discarded it, appalled. Eärendur had undergone all sorts of humiliations to convince the King that he was not the enemy. Would he shatter his efforts in a single second of folly?

_Of course, soon there mightn´t be much left to convince the King of anymore..._

Never had Inziladûn felt so trapped before. The feeling was one of suffocation, of an excruciating impotence. And that it was _Gimilkhâd_ of all people who had put him in this situation, his vain and airheaded younger brother who never cared for anything besides women, fashion trends and superstitions!

_Could he have been deceived for all those years, when, blinded by pride, he refused to acknowledge the abilities of his brother?_

Could the Elf-Friends, Númenor be doomed because he, the Far Sighted, had never cared to _see_?

At the brink of losing his dignity, he forced himself to regain a grip. He regrouped his thoughts. Everything was not lost yet, he tried desperately to remember. Gimilzôr knew nothing of this yet. There was still time.

_Time to_ _**act** _ _. To protect._

Well aware that the lives of his friends could very well depend on his cold blood now, he looked into Gimilkhâd´s eyes, searching for a weakness where he could prey. An onslaught of conflicted feelings assaulted his mind at once, similar to what he had felt the day that he dared to read his father in a second of open defiance, but raw and unrestrained.

_Hate. Revenge. Fear...?_ Envy because Inziladûn had been loved by their mother, because he had known her. A refuge in his father´s jealous pride... and deep inside the hidden roots of a quenched wish, the wish to be like him instead, the wish to rebel and be feared instead of used by a father who had claimed posession over him since the day of his birth.

Inziladûn was shaken. So many things, that could now bring ruin to their cause. There was a thin memory, magnified and aggravated by years of mulling over its details, of a young boy who had been rejected by the brother he secretly admired. Then, he saw rage and vindictiveness explode in a blinding haze, and red flowers... but before he could see anything else, Gimilkhâd pulled away from him.

"Stop using your Elvish witchcraft on me!" he yelled, his self-confidence momentarily gone in a rush of panic. "It will avail you nothing!"

_And yet we must use our weapons,_ Inziladûn thought, suddenly even more sad than frightened. _Because this is war, dear brother. Haven´t you noticed it yet?_

"What is it that you want, Gimilkhâd?" he asked, in a calmer tone. Gimilkhâd´s anger did not diminish at his conciliatory attempt, yet it slowly adopted a different shape: from fearful, visceral rejection it took a controlled edge, a mask of petulance.

"So you will even try to buy me, the Prince´s loyal son? Your treason knows no boundaries,"

"Maybe." Inziladûn did not move, intent on checking the effect of his words. A dangerous plan began to quickly unfold in his mind, and he cringed. "But you did not do this out of loyalty, either. If you had been the Prince´s loyal son, you would have reported this note to him instead of telling me about it now. Wouldn´t you?"

His brother opened his mouth to protest, but Inziladûn did not allow for the interruption.

"No. You did it because you want something from me. You always have."

Gimilkhâd stopped for a moment, then snorted to cover his surprise. Inziladûn took good note and continued, feeling his confidence grow.

"I must confess that I have always held you in small worth. Tonight, however, I have discovered that you have a will of your own." he said, with calculated contempt. His brother jumped at once, but he did not let himself be interrupted. "And you want to hold power over me. To defeat me. To humiliate me."

"I am loyal to the King!"

But not even a thousand protestations of outrage would be able to hide Gimilkhâd´s growing interest in his words. In spite of the striking ressemblances between him and their father, Inziladûn saw that there was still a rest of innocence in him, a small streak of involuntary sincerity of feelings that the Prince had already managed to kill in himself before his sons were born.

_An immature foe._

Muttering a final prayer to the Allfather, whose final mercy towards Númenor was blindly trusted by the Elf-friends, Inziladûn took a gold ring away from his finger, set with two rubies and an encircling serpent. Then, he lay it in Gimilkhâd´s hand with solemnity, his movements followed by two curious and bewildered eyes.

"If you should come one day and give this back to me" he pronounced, slowly and carefully, "anything you may ask from me shall be yours. So I swear by all gods, Númenorean or foreign, evil or good, true or false."

Gimilkhâd retired his hand in disgust. Still, Inziladûn noticed that he kept the ring in his grip, and was heartened.

"Why should I let myself be ensnared in your schemes, and become your accomplice?"he asked. "Why should I look aside while you... _conspire_ with traitors?"

"Because one day I will be King, whatever you or Father feel about it." Inziladûn replied without skipping a beat. The morbid, ominous thought that Gimilzôr could find a way to disinherit him if he managed to craft an accusation of treason crossed his mind, but he discarded it. The strength that allowed a man to impose his beliefs on others came from believing them himself, or so he had learned after his first, youthful attempts at politics. "And if _then_ you are brought to trial for causing the ruin of innocent kinsmen out of a mere whim, at least you will have this ring to protect you."

Even at the same time in which he said those words, Inziladûn cursed himself. He should not become aggressive. Swallowing again, he moderated his tone before Gimilkhâd could find an excuse to explode.

"Let´s not be enemies, if we cannot be friends." he sighed, gravely. "You have the knowledge that I am bound to you and your desire, and the assurance that I will not underestimate you again. But do not fall to the error of underestimating _me_."

Gimilkhâd stared at him, with a mixture of fascination and aversion, and then back at the ring with raw longing. Inziladûn himself was appalled at how the fallacy he had crafted had managed to escalate to the point where his brother was the one being cornered, instead of him. Briefly, he wondered if Gimilkhâd would have the courage and skill to shatter it.

His brother, however, balled his fist around the ring until his knuckles were white, as if unable to let it go in spite of his better judgement. With a last, angry huff, he turned back and strode out of the room.

"I will think about it!"

Inziladûn saw him disappear into the shadows of the corridor, and winced. Dazed, he sought for the first sitting place within his reach and collapsed over it, feeling the fire leave his body and mind and bring him to a state of stupour.

He shivered. He had done what he could to save his friends and their cause. For this, he had forced his skills to the utmost, thrown every other consideration aside, and Gimilkhâd´s final, lost look gave him good reason to hope. And yet, somehow, he did not feel proud of himself.

_A little, dark-eyed boy approached him, staring at him in quiet awe._

" _Can you really... see what I´m thinking?"_

Slithering in the darkness that had engulfed his brother´s trembling, irate form, two serpents watched each other with the wary eyes that preceded the strike.

\----------


	15. Eyes

_Warning for sex of very debatable consent._

Long ago, as he was trying to make sense of his own feelings, Gimilkhâd had thought of an adequate description for the two pairs of eyes that sometimes plagued his existence. He decided that the grey ones were terrible because they only cared to take – to rip him apart and dissect his better guarded feelings, while showing a flat and emotionless surface in exchange. There had maybe been a time or two when he had touched at some of their depths, but the treacherous euphoria had made him too blind to look further.

The others, however, the black ones, were used to give and never to take, and at moments he thought that this had to be even more terrible. They trailed over him, scrutinising his every feature, but they did not see him. They bore hopes, disappointments, expectations that sometimes even he did not understand, and whose burning weight he had tried alternatively to escape and to embrace, both to no avail, since he had been a child.

Now, as he waited for Gimilzôr´s reaction in his father´s chambers, he thought that those two pairs of eyes had tightened the noose too much in the last weeks. He felt suffocated, but still forced himself to keep a blank expression.

"Nothing." The Prince drank sparsely from his wine cup and frowned, repeating the word as if he couldn´t quite understand its meaning. "Nothing."

He shook his head.

"No. They received us courteously, and with the honours that we deserved." In spite of his efforts, he had to swallow before he continued. "I did not get wind of anything suspicious."

Gimilzôr let go of a sharp breath. His displeasure was evident.

"So you did not find anything suspicious? You must have been a poor observer, then. It was your brother´s third visit in twenty years, and I doubt very much that they intended to lose their time in pleasantries!"

"Maybe they never intended to..." Gimilkhâd began, but his father did not let him continue.

" _They never intended to_?" he hissed. "Did I teach you to be so gullible? They intended it since before he was even born. They watched over him like carrion birds since he was a baby, and then infected them with their sacrilegious... their treacherous poison!"

The Prince´s younger son stared at him in badly dissimulated shock. It was very rarely that his father allowed his composure to fall apart, and though he had never made a secret of mistrusting his other son, it was the first time that Gimilkhâd heard such a raw confession. The insidious thought crept inside his mind that, in spite of everything, it was still Inziladûn whom he seemed to feel more strongly about.

This, somehow, had the virtue of throwing his resolutions into a new spiral of disorder. He felt the weight of the ring under his robes; his hand trailed over its cold hardness in sudden doubt. Words formed in his mind, pressed against his mouth about what he had seen and heard back then – the incriminating note that would be able to make the expression in his father´s features change.

"I..." he began, then stopped. The eyes filled his whole mind, again.

_You want to hold power over me. To defeat me. To humiliate me._

And it happened. For the first time since they had made that deal, the whole extent of his shame came crashing over him. He _had_ accepted that ring, and with it, he had become an accomplice of the betrayal. Inziladûn had known that he would fall in this trap – that he would be tied by the horrible fear of his father knowing what he had done, and afraid of breaking his word.

But this was not all. With a shudder of revulsion at himself, he realised that he already _craved_ the feeling of the ring against his fingertips. _He_ _ **had**_ _wanted to hold power over him –_ and he still did. He wanted those eyes to be wary of him, instead of laden with contempt. He had tasted the feeling briefly that night, and had liked it too much.

If he kept his silence now, he would still keep this power in the future, while if he tried to destroy him now, he would lose it all. The war, maybe even the battle.

_Because one day I will be King, whatever you or Father feel about it._

And it was true, he realised, with a clarity that he was almost tempted to attribute to that elusive far-seeing quality of his blood that he had _not_ inherited. He recalled his father´s words of mere seconds ago, their intensity, and his suspicion. Less clearly, and coming from a more distant time of his life, maybe ten or fifteen years ago, he recalled an unvoiced question that had tormented him now and then as his father taught him to be a beacon of light and protect true religion and the lineage of Adunakhôr in times of darkness.

Gimilzôr had not killed Inziladûn back when he had been born a child with the features of a Western fiend. He had not killed him, or even disinherited him when he had grown up to despise the gods of Númenor, nor after he consorted with traitors.

_Because he could not do it._

Suddenly, Gimilkhâd felt powerless, unable to grab at anything, and had to take the ring to regain a measure of relief. It was there. It was real. He had control over this, at least.

He smiled.

"I think he had an affair with the daughter of Valandil, however. They were out in the woods at night, and they both came back upset."

Gimilzôr´s features tightened in alarm.

"He knows that he must marry soon."

"Precisely. She is of the blood of the Kings, is she not?"

The Prince shot him a warning look, and he forced himself to sober. Still, this new kind of anger seemed inoffensive, as if he had finally managed to swim away from the deep waters.

"His bride is already chosen. I will summon him tomorrow to discuss this affair with him." The tension faded away a little, and for someone who was as experienced as Gimilkhâd at reading his father´s features, his new expression transmitted some kind of tiredness. "You may leave now. I am... sure that your friends must be glad of your return."

_They will be gladder of the banquet,_ he thought a bit caustically, but nodded. His father was not looking at him anymore; he had already become engrossed with one of the papers over his desk.

Gimilkhâd remembered when he had been younger, and these sudden indifferences had hurt him. Back then, he had not had so many monstruous turmoils to hide, so many reasons to want those eyes to be focused on anything other than him.

Quenching this last thought, he offered a deep bow and turned back to leave. Before he had even come in sight of the servants to stood at the door, he heard a voice calling him.

He stopped in his tracks. His father was looking at him again.

"Yes, my lord prince?"

Gimilzôr seemed slightly incommodated for a moment. Then, he shook his head.

"You are still my son, even after... going to that place. I never doubted you would be, of course. And yet, it makes me glad." he said. Gimilkhâd stared at him, until he realised what he was doing and lowered his glance.

Something strange twisted a knot in his stomach. He felt the need to turn away, afraid of his conflicting emotions.

"I will always be loyal to you." he muttered, in his retreat.

\----------

"Long live the King, favourite of Melkor!" The young man who sat next to the door, whose cheeks were already flushing crimson, raised his silver cup high. "And may the incredulous believe that divine protection is also upon his family, now that the Prince of the South has come back from the demon-infested land!"

His words found a hearty echo almost at once. All those who were not discussing animatedly between themselves –such as the grandson of the Great Chamberlain and the son of the Lady of the Cellar Keys, who gestured so much with his hands that he had already caused the demise of a fine porcelain plate and a dozen of eels-, or engaged in stealing the musical instruments from the women who played and making more or less clumsy demonstrations, looked up and drank from their own cups in discordant unison.

Gimilkhâd smiled, drinking as well. The wine, even as it was heavily mixed with water and honey, was starting to spread its merry effects around the concurrence. In the brief span of an hour the level of voices and noises had grown loud and disorderly, a swift and unstoppable spiral of joy that would culminate in a wild drowning of everything. This was the moment that he liked best – the time when he felt as if an alien spirit had taken hold of his body, and his actions and thoughts flowed like water. There was no room for second thoughts anymore, for subtleties, responsibilities or skilled manouevres. Only the Goddess, guiding his steps.

Merry and splendid as this feast was, however, he had found that it was also laden with a certain unreal quality for him. The first time that someone had sung, the first time that someone had laughed, the sounds had entered him like the point of a dart. Back in Andünié, when he was deeply immersed in that phantasmagorial world, he had not been able to nail the source of his suspicions and discomfort, but now that he could touch life again with both hands, he felt as if he had come back from the dead. Dim images drew their strange shapes in his mind, of feet that did not make noise against the floor and cold eyes that no emotion could touch.

Sometimes, he wondered if he had not dreamed everything.

"Were there things that could make "warm blood run cold in your veins"?" the young Priest of the Chapel quoted, as he downed a honey pastry with so much skill that none of his words was affected by it. The grandson of the Great Chamberlain stopped his discussion for a moment to nod with vehemence.

"There are many stories about the land of rebels." The son of the Lady of the Cellar Keys interrupted him with a halfhearted "They are the King´s allies!", but Gimilkhâd shook his head. It had to be a matter of time until his father threw them back where they belonged. "They say that they can summon the spirits of Elves to their aid through magic rites."

"And drink the blood of the holy priests." the brother of the Gate General added, with a quick hand gesture to ward off evil.

"And their women rule the house, and men cook for them!" One of those who had already drunk the most –Nahastart, from a family that held a seat in the Council-, interrupted a passionate kiss with a musician to take part in the conversation. Confused, and also somewhat drunk already, the young woman fell back upon the floor.

"And they can command their souls to sever ties with their bodies!"

Gimilkhâd laughed.

"The did not do any of those things while I was visiting." He drank, again, forcing the wine to dispel the remembrances of the otherness that he had touched there. _Here_ there was light, and laughter, and he plunged into their core. "They hid their Elves in my presence!"

"Oh, they would flee in front of a true descendant of Adunakhôr the Great!" the grandson of the Great Chamberlain cried. "As in front of the King of Armenelos himself!"

Gimilkhâd nodded.

"Long live the King of Armenelos!" he cried, exultant. Everybody cheered this time, and he threw the empty cup aside to stand on his feet. Gesturing towards his foster-brother Ithobal, the son of the Lady of the South, he walked towards the centre, and both began to dance while they sang an old warrior song.

" _Lord of the Island_

_King of the Dead_

_Lead us to glory_

_Gallop ahead_

_With the Bright Crown_

_In your proud head!"_

Soon enough, a ring of dancers had been built around them. They moved in circles, following the rythm of the music with their steps. Most of the front row musicians were coaxed into putting their flutes aside and joining the mêlée, and their faint protests were drowned under a chorus of laughter.

One of the last to join hands with the courtiers was a young woman of dark skin, whose light-brown, almost golden curls crowned her head like a halo. For a fraction of a second, Gimilkhâd stopped to look at her, impressed at her appearance.

She had obviously been brought from Middle-Earth, to serve the royal family with her skills. And still, in spite of her barbaric look, there was something regal about that body of ample and powerful curves. Even barbarians had queens; maybe she had been one once.

Taking advantage of a chance that he had to draw closer to her, he took his banquet crown, woven with myrtle, and laid it upon her head. She paled a little, lifting one of her hands towards it. Her mouth opened to mumble something in broken Adûnaic, but then the multitude around them erupted in daring remarks, and she was swept away again by one of the evolutions of the dance.

" _Lady of Night_

_Bring us delight!"_ Nahastart sang, with malicious intent. Another voice echoed.

" _Show us your might_

_Help in this plight!"_

" _Until the day´s light!"_ Gimilkhâd completed with a laugh, heading back to the middle of the circle.

A long while later, as he felt his feet starting to become heavier, he sought her again, and found her sitting back with the musicians. She took his proferred hand with reluctance, but he was past the fineries of courtship and simply swept her off in his arms. Her grip tightened in alarm, then tenuously relaxed.

As they abandoned the hall, wading across dancers, drinkers and impromptu couples, some shaking cups were raised to them.

\----------

Looking towards the floor did not fail to bring a slight dizzyness, and the ornaments of the bedchamber shifted a little around him, yet he was sober enough to wish to enjoy the rest of that night thoroughly. He undressed her with all care, closing his eyes and touching the soft fabric of her dress, the harsher surface of her tanned skin –so different from that of the ladies of Armenelos-, and even the curls upon her head, which had been soaked in oil in an useless attempt to tame them. He also made her undress him, and relished in the feeling of her hands roaming over his body and awakening different sensations. She smelled of perfumed ointment, with an acrid touch of sweat and wine.

As he pressed against her firm limbs upon the couch, he looked at her face, and saw her brown eyes darken in some endearing sort of calculating wariness, then widen in pain, and finally narrow in pleasure. An odd, warm feeling of triumph stirred inside his chest, spreading through his limbs like fire.

Later, as he lay over the dishevelled bedcovers in heavy sleep, he saw those eyes again wandering in and out of his dreams. But there they became grey, and black, and sometimes vaguely accusing.

\----------

_Clang. Clang. Cling. Clang._

This sound, sharp and persistent, roused him from his drunken haze some time later. Groaning something, he tried to hide under the dark quiet of the pillow, but the nuisance did not stop.

_Cling. Clang._

"Shut the fuck up!" he yelled, in a voice that came out hoarse - and slightly ridiculous. A hurried _cling_ grated his ears; then everything became silent once more.

In relief, Gimilkhâd curled against the covers, and tried to find his way back to the blissful depths of sleep. But somehow, he realised, he was not able anymore to reach that tenuous point of perfect unawareness that he had lost. Frustrated, he rolled back and forth, further and further awake at each passing second.

Finally, he had to surrender, and opened his eyes to the light of the day. Blinking several times, he touched the space at his left – of course, empty. The woman had left at some point during the night.

As he rolled to his other side, and braved the sunrays that burst through the lacquered window lattice, he could distinguish a human silhouette, sitting in front of a table. He blinked several times, until he became accustomed enough to the light as to meet the elegant powdered face of his foster-brother.

"What are you doing here?" he mumbled, irritated. Ithobal gave him a bow, and began to gather the small silver balls he had been playing with in a red velvet bag.

"I bribed your servants." he replied. There were no signs of the night´s excesses on his expression; his dark brown hair was neatly gathered on a single braid that fell over his back, as it was fashionable now in Armenelos. Gimilkhâd muttered a curse between his teeth – that bastard had always had that skill to avoid unpleasant side-effects.

"They will hear me later."

The last silver ball fell in the bag, and Ithobal laced the knot with a fastidious slowness. His eyes fell upon the table.

"That woman..."

"The musician?"

He nodded.

"She is married."

The news took a while to pierce through Gimilkhâd´s current daze. As they did, his eyes widened, and he sat upon the edge of the bed so brusquely that his head hurt. He cursed again.

"And what the hell was she doing in that banquet?"

Ithobal shrugged.

"Oh, I am sure that she took the Killing Seed, just like the others. And still... do you need help, my lord?"

"I am fine!" the prince snapped back, combing his hair with his hand. If there was something that he hated, it was to look dishevelled. "It was the Lady´s doing." he added, petulantly. "She brings those sudden passions upon us, and all we can do is submit to her power."

"And yet she loves those who exerce moderation."

"If you are going to lecture me, you may as well leave my chambers at once."

All traces of openness in Ithobal´s face vanished with practiced ease, leaving the look of deference of a true courtier. He stood up, and bowed.

"I will leave if that is what you wish."

Gimilkhâd frowned. He did not want to be alone, either.

"Stay." he ordered, motioning to the edge of the bed next to him. Ithobal bowed again, and sat at his side. "After all... you are my brother, I suppose. Who better than you to talk about those things?"

"Merely a foster-brother, Noblest." the other man answered quickly. Gimilkhâd wondered if it was a note of faint alarm in his voice. On the rare times that he had felt somewhat emotional –always after drinking-, people seemed to skirt around him like around a heap of red-hot coals.

It irritated him.

"I wish you were my brother instead of that Elvish fiend." he proclaimed, to augment Ithobal´s embarrassment. "You should have seen them! They do not laugh like us. They do not sing, or party, or grow angry, or anything. They are monsters with no emotions, and he is just like them. They ignore you. Look right through you, and then smile as if they had suddenly seen the day of your death." He sighed, feeling the uncomfortableness prey on him again. "I want to ask you something."

Ithobal´s brow furrowed in an inquiring expression, which had something of veiled resignation.

"Yes?"

"Imagine that there is a thing... a mission that you have been taught to rever above all things since you were born. No, I am lying... imagine rather that you have been _born_ to accomplish that mission."he began. He did not even wait for Ithobal to nod back. "And then there is something that you have always wished you could have, more than anything else in the world. Suddenly, you have to choose between those two things... what would you do?"

If Ithobal had been embarrassed before, the expression that crossed his face now was rather one of puzzlement. Still, he was skilled and well-experienced –a hereditary gift of his mother, the fearsome Lady of the South who had raised Gimilkhâd since he was a baby-, and managed to keep his cool.

"I would say that duty should be above everything else at all times." he ventured. The prince frowned. "And yet, I also feel that wishes are closest to the core of one´s being."

Gimilkhâd pondered this answer in silence, staring at the bright coloured flowers behind the window. He viewed the scene in his mind again, the ring offered to him in the dark of the night, those _eyes_ \- considering him with a tantalising, grudging respect.

_You are still my son._

_Tonight, I have discovered that you have a will of your own._

Burned again by the remembrances, he rebelled.

"Closest to the core of my being? "he snarled. "Then why does it feel like my soul was ripped in two?"

Ithobal froze in shock. Little by little, as he felt the weight of this new silence, Gimilkhâd began to realise what he had said, and turned back towards the other man with a look of sudden wariness.

"My Prince... what has happened?"

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it as a familiar sensation hit him on the gut. Ithobal´s eyes were prying, searching for a clue in the lines of his countenance.

_Curious._

"Leave." he hissed, and looked aside to hide the pallor of his face from their inquisitiveness.

Today, he did not want anyone to look at him.


	16. Last Port

_Cádiz is a place without equal among all those I have seen until today. It has all the good and bad qualities of a great city and a seaport: riches, magnificence, luxury and corruption, the eternal companion of opulence. Whoever wants to study the human heart and the prodigious effects of trade must come to Cádiz to learn and be admired. (Alejandro Ramírez)_

**Last Port**

Centuries ago, when the name of the city had first been noted down in a literary scroll, it had been but a small dot of land in the horizon, signalled by flocks of white seagulls turning around in protective circles. As the illustrious mariner had sailed closer, however, leaning on his prow and narrowing his eyes, strange lines had slowly begun to reveal themselves to his awed eyes, until lo! a full Númenorean city had appeared in all its glory, with its gardens, white-towered houses and temples.

The chronicler had confessed that his hand trembled at the very impossibility to describe in adequate words what he had felt back then. A city in the water, with the sea for a field, and tall stone houses whose foundations were driven through the heart of the shifting lime!

Approaching the strange prodigy further, he had counted two channels that came to die on sea waters, one crossing the city like one of its avenues and the other, larger, tearing it apart from another island that stretched on its Eastern flank. There, on its farthest end, lay the unfinished structure of a great temple, covered in ropes and scaffoldings. Wondering which god might be the one whom this strange colony had invoked as their protector, he wrote, he ordered his sailors to put their prow to it.

Things had changed little since that day, and the sailor who entered the Bay still felt a flutter in his chest at the first glimpse of Gadir, the Silver Pearl of Belfalas (1). Like that illustrious mariner had done, Zarhil lay upon the prow of her ship, and left to others the confuse ruckus of orders and manouevres while she devoured the sight with her eyes.

The city ressembled a huge ship, she mused in an uncommon bout of lyricism, floating over the waters with its white towers for sails. She imagined how the nearby mainland barbarians had once stared in astonishment at this piece of Westernesse that had suddenly grown in front of their eyes, that city that refused to enter their own world and remained haughtily anchored, unmoving, in the middle of the Bay.

As they rounded the cape and headed for the inner harbour, a flock of seagulls overtook the ship with a pandemonium of joyous cries. Zarhil saw them head towards a building painted in colourful patterns of red and white, and turn a circle around one of its four towers. Then, they sped towards the harbour, and, flying over the heads of the multitude and the masts of ships, they plunged into the waves to emerge, seconds later, with struggling fish in their claws.

In contrast with the silence of the sea, the animation of the docks was almost deafening. Ships came and went from the mainlands, loaded with sweet water, fresh vegetables, and pieces of red fruit that the vendors exposed to the appreciating sight of customers upon boxes of wood. As Zarhil´s _Aphtaroth_ was expertly anchored on the Southern end of the crowded harbour –with the help of a couple of commissioners that barked their instructions from the docks- the fragrant smells reached her nostrils in waves.

"This is the last port." a man´s voice announced behind her back. "Now it´s done."

Zarhil nodded to Malko, her first mate, and let go of a wry smile.

"We buy the offrands for the Temple and we leave."

Malko frowned. Behind him, some sailors were still busy tying the ropes.

"Leave? I thought we would be spending the night here. The men need a bit of fun."

"My family has _summoned_ me. The last thing I want is to have them accusing me of delaying my route on purpose again."

"I understand. "A smile creased his features, darker but softer and less sea-battered than her own. "You might receive important news."

Furiously red, Zarhil walked towards the wooden ramp and tried to drag it alone towards the exit. Shaking his head, Malko called two men over to help her.

"I grow weary of... your... _ignorant_ teasing." she admonished him, though her gasps of effort spoiled the effect of her irritation. "And you forget your place!"

"My apologies." he said with a bow. Staring at him with a frown, she shook her head.

"I want no further word on this subject." she hissed. Then, dismissing him, she raised her glance and gestured to the rest of the men. "Men! We will be boarding here for awhile. The time to buy..."

"The Lady Zarhil, daughter of Zarhâd of Forrostar?"

Surprised, the woman turned back to the strangely accented voice that had interrupted her speech. A man, dressed in rich yellow clothes and wearing a pointed red hat on his head stood behind her, bowing with a courteous smile.

"Hey? Where the hell did _you_ come from?" a sailor cried, as nonplussed as she was at his sudden appearance. She forced herself to swallow an expletive, and gestured the men to keep silent.

"Oh, as soon as the fair _Aphtaroth´_ s sails appeared in the horizon, the great Magon sent this humble servant in his name, to welcome such a powerful lady to our city."

"So you came running all the way here and _jumped_ into the ship before the ramp was wholly set?" Malko muttered, still in disbelief. The Gadirite just smiled.

"The great Magon´s house is not far from here. Would my lady grace him with your presence?"

Zarhil blinked.

"Are you inviting me?"

The man nodded.

"If this is your ladyship´s wish." he added, courteously.

"I am sorry." she muttered, shaking her head. The last thing she had in mind was to end trapped in the house of a Merchant Prince. "I am here for a brief visit before heading back for Númenor."

"To buy offrands for the temple of Melkor." the man completed with an irritating certainty. "Alas! You will find none of that until next week. We are in the middle of our February festival."

"February festival?" Zarhil did not believe her ears. _Was that man mocking her?_ "The February festival is not until next week!"

His glance had something of condescending as he shook his head.

"The February festival of Gadir begins earlier than that of Armenelos. It is also... significantly divergent in other ways. But if my lady is in a hurry, there is a solution."

"No, thanks." she growled. "We leave, then."

This announcement was not received with enthusiasm by the other sailors, who began muttering things among them with sourly looks. The words "rest", "storm" "long travel" and "festival" reached Zarhil´s ears among the undistinguishable blur, and she sighed.

"What is this... solution?"

"If my lady accepts Magon´s hospitality, he will be very glad to provide all the needed items. He is the greatest importer of the colonies, and his storehouses are filled with the finest products of the Island and the mainland."

"So I could leave tomorrow?" she asked, a bit mistrustful.

"Of course, my lady. Or when you wish. Magon´s hospitality..."

"All right, all right." she growled. The intensity of mumbled complaints had disminished, and she turned towards the sailors with an admonishing expression. "You may have fun tonight in the festival. But be sure that if anybody fails to board this wretched ship tomorrow morning, he will have to buy himself a passage in the next ship to Sor!"

Then, she turned towards Malko, who was trying to hide a smile.

"And _you_ will come with me." she added. "Lead the way."

The Gadirite bowed with an unscrutable expression, and descended the ramp again. Zarhil followed him, trying to ignore the bothersome feeling of unfamiliarity that assaulted her as her feet touched the firm pavement. She sent a last, longing glance in the direction of her ship.

"I hate those quick-thinking bastards." she whispered to Malko, who raised an eyebrow.

\----------

Next to the harbour lay the channel that cut the city in a half, spread between two avenues and as many rows of tall houses with balconies, which provided a good view of the boats that kept continuously crossing under their feet. Their guide –Uhar was his name- hired a small boat, and made sure with polite obsequiousness that Zarhil was comfortably seated in the middle.

"Will he worry about my robes getting wet?" she grumbled in annoyance. Her outfit was plain and grey, and a thick layer of salt covered its faded golden hem since the storm that had surprised them up North. Malko, who seemed to find her plight very funny, made a semblance of staring with horror at a small water stain over her knee.

As they advanced up the channel, at the slow rythm of the rower´s splashing oars, they first became aware of something strange. At the other side of the railings, large groups of people were crowding around something, though there was no visible sign of what they could be looking at. After a while, Zarhil heard an echo of male voices singing in the distance.

"What is this?" she asked Malko. "You have been to this city many times, back when you were in the Sorian navy."

"It´s the festival." he replied, with a mysterious shrug. "Our guide was right, it is slightly - divergent from ours in certain ways."

Unfortunately, the end of the traject was a mere twenty metres farther from them, and as the boat stopped at the last step of the stone stairs, Zarhil lost the opportunity to ask for details. At the feet of the Sacred Cave there were no such groups in sight anymore. Everything looked dispirited and lonely, except for several vendors who sat in front of their sacrificial merchandise.

"Two turtle doves." she demanded, to a sleepy-looking woman who rubbed her eyes and blinked at the unusual appearance of her customer. Malko paid after her.

It was a difficult thing to grow used to the darkness of the place after so many hours of braving the sunrays. For a while, Zarhil stumbled downstairs, hearing nothing but the flapping of wings of the two birds in the wooden cage that her companion held in his hands. When she finally became able to distinguish the lines, she advanced with slow and careful steps.

The image of the Goddess looked dim in the distance, lighted only by perfumed candles and the flames of the altar in the corner. At her feet lay countless offrands of local and foreign sailors, over a pile of evergreen boughs of return.

At this sight, her devotion arose in a blaze, remembering the many people that Ashtarte-Uinen had saved from the waves. She, also, had owed her life to the Goddess in several ocassions, and felt her loving protection upon her many more.

Since little Zarhil had stepped inside her first ship, she liked to believe that the Lady had been the one who had covered her with her silvery mantle, and taken all her girlish fears away with the sollicitude of a mother. She had claimed her as her child, refusing to let her go even when she was on land.

"Forgive me, Lady of the Seas." she muttered, ashamed at the meagreness of her sacrifice. "Tomorrow I will offer you a precious gift, worthy of my love for you."

At a sign from her, Malko took the turtle doves out, and burned them in the fires of the altar while she knelt to pray. The strong smell of flesh mingled with the scent of perfume, making them both dizzy for a while.

After she had finished the long litany, Zarhil stood up from the cold floor. The shadows danced in front of her eyes, and she would have fallen again if it hadn´t been for Malko´s timely assistance.

"Can you walk upstairs?" he asked with sollicitude. She nodded, pulling away from him.

"Our hunter is waiting outside for his prey." she joked in a hoarse voice. For the last time, she turned towards the image of the Ashtarte-Uinen of Gadir, and made the holy sign thrice. "Let us go."

\----------

Magon´s house was at the same side of the channel as the Cave, and thus it did not become necessary to take another boat. Zarhil had made some brief scales in Gadir before, and knew of its people´s passion for walking, so she was not surprised when Uhar guided them across the slightly curved streets on foot. The shock came upon finding the crowded groups again, pressing in mysterious silence around a doorstep or a corner.

As they pushed their way past one of them, the notes of a song came once again to her ears, this time much clearer than before. She frowned, trying to understand the words, but then the silence erupted in a sudden pandemonium of laughter and clapping of hands.

"What are they doing?" she asked Malko, gesticulating in order to be heard.

"They are groups of citizens, singing their yearly Festival compositions." Uhar answered in his stead. "Foreigners find them a little difficult to understand."

In spite of his dissimulated attempts to get them out of the way, Zarhil sought for the front stairs of a nearby house, and climbed the steps in search of a better view. She had had enough of being led around like sheep in a flock. After a brief hesitation, Malko followed her.

"The shopkeeper! The shopkeeper!" people were shouting in unison. At the centre of the crowd there was a group of around ten or twelve men, dressed in strange outfits with furs and ears. Several of them were drinking wine.

"All right. On popular demand!" one said. A part of the people cheered.

Finishing their jars with precipitation, the ridiculously disguised people put them aside and began whispering things to each other. One of them laughed, and strode to the front. Others were picking up a curious variety of string instrument.

Suddenly, they all began to sing in unison.

" _In my quarter, there is a certain place..."_

Zarhil stood on her toes, doing efforts to hear what they were saying. To her great surprise, she found the lines very funny. They spoke about a miserly shopkeeper who had only been known to close his shop on the day of his wedding –and just for the morning. If one was not very careful, he gave back copper coins instead of bronze, and owned a knife that was quite useful for cutting meat slices and cleaning the dirt on the chinks.

At the end of the song, she was looking back to Malko and Uhar in renewed wonder.

"Is this a popular song in Gadir?"

Malko shook his head. Ahead of them, someone shushed.

"They made it this year. Each year, they make new songs and try to rival each other for popularity."

"If my lady would allow..."

"All right, all right, let us go." Zarhil jumped down, irritated. As they pushed their way through the crowd, she heard several other unfriendly shushes.

But the surprises were far from ending there. They had not walked thirty metres further when they found a new crowd barring their way, even thicker than the previous.

"Good mercy of Uinen, what the hell is this!"

Uhar looked left and right, as if calculating something. Then, he made a gesture for them to follow, and headed for one of the side streets.

Before she followed him, Zarhil could hear a couple of lines:

"My mother-in-law, she was so fat, so fat 

_A worm entered her coffin, and an hour later_

_A cobra came out..."_

"Those songs are written by the populace. They can get to be quite vulgar." Malko whispered in her ear, as she opened her mouth to stammer something appalled. Those people had to be the bastard sons of barbarians... no Númenorean would joke this way with the Doom of Men!

"Oh, they respect nothing. They hold nothing sacred. They laugh at all." Uhar muttered sententiously, shaking his head as if he had guessed her thoughts. "Look at your right, my lady, if you feel strong enough to bear it."

In fascinated curiosity, Zarhil did as she was told, and her eyes fell upon the most gruesomely irreverent scene that she had ever witnessed. A tall, badly-shaved man –and at least slightly drunk, to make things worse- was dressed in a ridiculous replica of the Great God Melkor´s holy attributes. His crown and mace were made of paper, and while his right hand held a jar of cheap wine, his left was making huge gestures to the people who stood listening to him in rapt attention. Zarhil stopped to listen, and became even paler. He was describing with all luxury of details how he had escaped from the temple while the priests weren´t looking, crossed the two channels swimming, and now was currently hiding in the crowd to flee–"like the pest"- those homicidal Númenoreans who could not worship a god without throwing him into the fire "every fucking year."

The woman swallowed, trying to undo the knot that had formed in her throat. The level of sacrilege was so unbelievably high that it touched unreality –she felt as if the god in front of whose altar she had knelt with downcast eyes had been a different deity, worshipped by a different people in a different world. There _had_ to be a reason for this – this Middle-Earth Melkor and the Melkor of Númenor just could not be the same.

_And who were those people?_

"My lady..."

This time, she barely realised that Uhar was taking her arm and gently guiding her away from that place. Their walk became an odyssey through many other streets of increasingly tall houses, now and then turning in circles to avoid the crowds. Through pressed arms and shoulders, between heads raised in anticipation, she saw drunkards in priestly costumes, men dressed as women, and heard sneers and witticisms about the mainland barbarians, their own citizens, magistrates, and even the royal family. A ditty about Prince Gimilzôr´s lack of love life became stuck, to her horror, inside her head.

And not even the most elegant avenues, where the white and painted façades of the houses of the greatest rivaled each other in magnificence were spared by the overwhelming tide. In one of the most imposing doorsteps, flanked by statues, people sat listening to a group at leisure, eating and drinking with abandon. Those were dressed and painted as some sort of tribe, and Zarhil had to blink – were those _forks_ on their headgear?

As they passed them by, following Uhar in the direction of a building of delicately sculpted rosy marble, the gates of the house opened, and a richly dressed couple stepped out. A sizeable escort preceded them, forcefully trying to get the people to move for them, but Zarhil could see a slight shadow of fear cross their eyes even as they feigned disdain.

Then, someone shushed, and this became the signal to unleash a storm of popular wit.

"A million on pure silver and control of the spice trade! True love, indeed!"

"Is it true that she got you those two monopolies from the governor, Malakar?"

"Hey, Malakar! Could you share her with me tonight? I must be the only one in this wretched city who has still not slept in her bed."

The woman, a very beautiful young lady, went pale and swallowed. Her husband shook his head, muttering something, and quickened his pace.

"I cannot believe it!" Zarhil muttered. "And he did nothing?"

"During the Festival, the city is taken by this populace. It would be useless to do anything; but they are well used to it." Malko replied with a shrug. "And besides... they happen to be dead right about those two. The people of Gadir usually are."

Shaking her head in disbelief, the woman overtook him and headed towards Magon´s doorstep, where Uhar was waiting. Judging by the briskness with which she ushered her inside, she felt that he was afraid of those people targetting them next.

\----------

The courtyard of the house was as colourful as the front was sober. A portico with columns surrounded a white-marbled square, in whose centre stood something ressembling a well, covered by a brilliant green lid of magnificent metalwork. Ceramic pots with rare flowers and plants lay scattered around the floor and on every corner, - artificial gardens in an artificial city-, and the walls behind the porticoes were ornated with glazed tiles of blue, yellow and green patterns.

As they stood there, admiring that secluded place and dazzled by the contrast with the noisy disorder of the streets, a man and a woman rushed downstairs to meet them. She was a young matron of ample curves, who wore a robe of rich violet silks that dragged behind her steps, and silver bracelets over her bare arms. Her smile was sweet and welcoming, but slightly more reserved than that of her husband.

He was the first to bow, with an open look of delight. His yellow robes were covered in intrincate silver embroideries, and a strange effect of the sunlight on his fair skin made him briefly appear like a golden statue. Zarhil stared at him, and her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

Was this the famous Magon of Gadir? The ambitious Merchant Prince who traded with Sor, the mainland barbarians and the faraway Umbar? His hair was short and curly, and he did not look a year above thirty.

"Many stories had reached my ears about her prodigious sea travels, and yet she had always refused to stay in an islander´s house." he said, fluently and without a trace of the strong accent that she had perceived in the popular singers outside. "May I now have the honour of welcoming the lady Zarhil of Forrostar to my humble abode?"

Zarhil swallowed, her brow slowly unfurling as she became aware of her lack of manners. The continuous sucession of surprises had affected her.

"I am... glad to be received with such courtesy by a stranger." she quickly improvised, determined to stand her own against the rhetorical torrent of the merchant. "I am Zarhil, and this is Malko of Sor. Your city –and your house- is as beautiful as I was told."

"And you are as beautiful as we were told." he replied, so enthusiastically that for a moment she was sure that he had to be making fun of her. "Beautiful and brave, to have reached the confines of the world with your ship in so many perilous travels. Allow me to introduce myself as Magon of Gadir, your humble servant... and her as Iolid, your humble servant´s wife."

A humourous spark was dancing –ominously- in Malko´s brown eyes. Fortunately, he seemed to understand the convenience of following the given cues, and did not make any comments.

"Stories about me tend to exaggerate. I have not found the end of the world yet, unless it is made of an endless sucession of ice mountains." She shrugged. "If there is one, it probably cannot be reached by ship."

Magon and Iolid smiled.

"Everything can be reached by ship. This is why we Númenoreans rule the world." she sentenced. Then, her lips widened in another smile. "But I am sure that you must be exhausted. How rude of us, to keep you standing at our front courtyard!"

"We are holding a musical dinner this evening, in your honour "he bowed "and for the pleasure of several associates who are currently staying at our house. We would feel extremely honoured if you both attended."

"We will." Zarhil nodded, trying to hide her disgust at the perspective of the endless rounds of polite exchanges. She had never liked this, maybe that was why she relished in the simple life of her ship so much – and merchants were not much of her liking.

Iolid clapped her hands. Immediately, as if they had been waiting in the shadows to be summoned, four young women dressed in silver and white flanked her.

"Please, allow me to show you your chambers. Those women will be at your service for the time of your stay."

"Thank you." Zarhil gave a slight nod to Magon, who bowed in all ceremony. Right before she turned her back on him, she had the uncomfortable sensation of being measured with a veiled feeling of amusement.

Malko´s cold fingers pressed against her arm, in discreet warning.

"After all, they are also Gadirites." he whispered in her ear, as they followed Iolid upstairs.

\----------

_Gadirites!_ Humpf.

At least, there was nothing she could object to the room she was assigned. Not even in the Forrostar Palace of Armenelos had she ever seen such luxury – a huge bed half-hidden from sight by a red veil with embroidered golden stars, soft cushions, ivory chairs and a bathroom whose floor and walls were entirely set with glazed tiles. Iolid and Malko left here there with the women, after many concerned inquiries about her needs that she downplayed as patiently as she could. As soon as they were gone, she told the surprised women to leave –she used to feel touchy about her privacy when not at home, maybe because she was usually surrounded by men-, and without even disrobing herself, she sank on the soft mattress with a groan of relief.

When she woke up, it was night already. The new darkness disoriented her at first, and as she struggled to sit upon her bed, she realised that she had a headache. _Served her right for sleeping at day_ , she thought with a muttered curse, but hell! she had been tired as a dog.

Somehow, the noise that she had made alerted the accursed women of the fact that she was awake, and they quickly entered the room with solemn bows. If she had felt a little less sleepy, Zarhil would have wondered if they had spent all afternoon listening to her snores from the other side of the door.

"Your bath will be ready in an instant, my lady."

"I do not need a bath." she mumbled, realising the impossibility of keeping the lie even as she uttered the words. She was positively _reeking_ of dirty salt, and there was that dinner that she had to attend.

_A dinner with Magon and his associates._ She sighed.

"Well, maybe I could need it." she conceded. "But leave me alone."

The young women stared at her as if she was some strange object that had just fallen from the sky.

"But..." One of them, the most spirited, bit her lip and dared to brave her glance. "We were told to... tend to the Lady´s needs..."

"How are we supposed to do this, if the Lady doesn´t... want us to be here?"

Their eyes became mournful, almost imploring. It was almost as when her small nieces begged for a favour. With her mind still partly clouded by a sleepy haze, Zarhil felt herself relent.

"Do what you will, then." she sighed. Relief crossed their features, and each set to their tasks in a show of perfect coordination. Two were in charge of bringing the water, another of mixing the perfumes and the salts; a fourth knelt to undress her.

As she became accustomed to the feel of their hands upon her skin, Zarhil realised, to her surprise, that there was a kind of pleasure in surrendering to their ministrations. The water was warm and smelled like roses; nothing like the cold basin where she washed her face while she was on the ship. She closed her eyes, feeling sleepy again.

After the bath, two of them began to show her sets of robes, as gaudily magnificent as those worn by her hosts in the coutryard. People would stare at those at the Armenelos court, she thought in a brief flash of distaste, before she armed herself with resignation and pointed at a green and yellow dress that at least was only embroidered at the hem.

The girl who was holding that dress beamed, as if it had been on her merits that it had been chosen. The others ran to take the rest away, while she extended it upon the bed and elaborated on its magnificences and the most appropriate jewel combinations. Not understanding anything at all, Zarhil let her babble on, nodding to everything that she said.

When she was at last dressed, there was still her hair left. After an animated discussion, the women smoothed her coarse plaits with some oily product and allowed it to fall down her shoulders. On her crown, they made two small braids and fixed them with golden ringlets, and clapped hands at the result.

Nonplussed, Zarhil wondered if she should have encouraged them by being so compliant. They might remind her of her small nieces, but at the moment _she_ reminded herself of her nieces´s favourite doll. If Malko dared to laugh at her, he would be severely punished.

"You are radiant, my lady." the Girl-of-the Dress exclaimed. The others nodded in approval.

"Please, allow us to escort you to the banquet room!" Daring-Girl implored. Zarhil nodded –it was too late to escape, after all, especially if it implied running with that outfit in front of the insolent populace of that accursed city.

_What was it with those people, and their habitude of carrying their guests in tow everywhere?_

Distractedly smoothing one of her braids, Zarhil sighed, and prepared herself for a very long evening.

\----------

Dinner had already begun without her, in a room whose walls were covered with mosaics that depicted all the types of fish that were known to exist in the ocean, swimming in ethereal waves. Some people sat in ivory chairs; others lay on cushions, and their attention barely shifted from the heavily-loaded table where ceramic plates of the most rare and exquisite seafood battled for space with jars of mixed Belfalas wine.

In a first moment, the lights and colours and the noises of conversation made her feel dizzy again, but then she began distinguishing faces. Malko was already there, lying on a couch in animated conversation with a tanned man who wore dark-green robes. He had also been made to discard his usual clothing to don the fine silks of their guests, and his head -which he usually shaved clean before his travels, and had acquired a raspy crop after the two last months- was covered with an elegant red turban that fell over his right shoulder.

Being the first to notice her presence, with a quick and alert glance, Magon rose from his seat and commanded the attention of his guests. Next to him was his wife and another woman, Zarhil realised in some curiosity. In the provinces, men and women only ate together in informal circumstances, as in front of guests they would imitate the protocol of Armenelos and the central regions – but not here, it seemed.

"This, dearest guests, is the lady Zarhil, whose name you have already heard from so many mouths. "he announced. Now that the lights fell on him, the golden hue seemed to be part of his skin instead of an optical illusion. "Since the times of our ancestors and the founders of this city, we have been valiant mariners, who conquered the seas and built our very home among the waves. And she, a woman without equal, is the best embodiment of this spirit!"

"Indeed we have heard much about you, my lady." a thin man in yellow who sat at the women´s other side nodded. "I was told that you had reached the end of the world, but Magon here told me this evening that you choose to deny it."

"This is Himilkar, a local associate" Magon introduced him, "and soon brother-in-law."

The man bowed in answer, and his clear brown eyes met those of the woman next to him. Both smiled in unison.

"This is Abdeshmoun, an Umbarian associate," Magon continued, beckoning briefly to the merchant who had been talking with Malko, before passing over to a fair-skinned man who wore orange robes and long dark braids, "and this is Azzibal, of Sor."

Zarhil nodded politely to everyone, and received their deep bows in return. In answer to Magon´s welcoming gesture, she sat down, and immediately a servant offered her a glass and filled it with wine.

The men, especially the Umbarian, were considering her with deep interest. She drank, feeling somewhat shy under their stares.

"A woman in love with the Sea." he muttered. "I had never heard of such a wonder elsewhere."

"Oh, but this wonder might have an explanation. "Iolid intervened, turning towards her with a bright expression. "The lady Zarhil descends from the kings of old, and one of them was Aldarion, the Sea-lover."

Zarhil blinked. She would not have expected knowledge of her lineage´s intrincacies in merchants.

"Indeed." she replied to her nonetheless. "We descend from Anárion, who was Aldarion´s grandson."

"And this is no mistake." Malko intervened. "She is a seaman –seawoman- to boot. You should have seen her in the middle of the raging gale!"

"Were you caught in a storm?" Azzibal asked curiously. Zarhil had to prevent herself from glaring daggers at her first mate.

"Just before we reached Aiboshim. It was not too bad." she answered.

"Aiboshim? Then you come from far up North!" Himilkar deduced.

"I had visited some friends." Zarhil sipped some of the wine very carefully, and realised that it was good. "Barbarian friends, who live in houses made of ice and worship the white bear."

"She has a bunch of quite extraordinary acquaintances, you see." Malko smiled. _How much had he already drunk?_

"There is nothing extraordinary in the story." she replied, with a slightly cutting tone. "In one of my first trips, I was taken by the youthful wish to go farther than anyone. I found the ice, and then I ran out of provisions for the return home – the whole coast down South being infested with Elves, and all. Those people helped me back then, and for that I am very grateful."

"And you continued visiting them for years?" Magon asked, fascinated. Zarhil nodded.

"They are always glad to see me. I bring them gifts, and they give me something that they consider to be very precious – the oil of some kind of sea-monster."

A spark of realisation flashed through the eyes of the Gadirite merchant. He exchanged glances with his associate Himilkar.

"Sperm oil." the second muttered. "Is it good quality?"

Rudely awakened from her tale, Zarhil had the definite sensation that she had talked too much. She cursed to herself for allowing their polite interest to lure her into lowering her guard.

"I would not know." _I am not a merchant,_ she thought. But Magon did not seem ready to let it go.

"Would you sell us a quantity, my lady? We would pay you well. We have a connexion with the Southern whalers, but it is a tenuous one at best, and there is high competence..."

"I am sorry, but the oil is a gift. It is not for sale." Zarhil replied, dryly. Deep inside, she was seething – _pay well_? What did that man think she was?

If Magon was disappointed at her answer, he did not allow it to show in his face for more that a second.

"Then, as an hospitality favour, I would wish to ask you for a sample –if you give your consent, my lady."

Caught in the middle of his change of strategy, the woman only managed to nod. After all, she had no valid reasons to oppose that request.

"Certainly. If you come and get it tomorrow morning before we leave, that is. We... are in a hurry." she added, hoping it would sound a bit less rude. But Magon merely smiled.

"Then it is done. By the way, this reminds me of something..."With a gesture, he summoned a man who was standing on the door, and whispered in his ear. Zarhil frowned, wondering what else would her host surprise her with.

Before her guessing could carry her very far, however, Azzibal´s conversation with Malko caught her attention.

"You are leaving tomorrow already? Has the Festival scared you away?"

"Do not ask _me._ She is the captain of the ship."

"The captain of the ship has family business to attend to." she cut him, picking a crab´s leg from one of the ceramic plates. "And no, the festival has not scared me away. I wonder, however, how is it that the princes of this city suffer so graciously to be insulted once a year."

This comment immediately caused a buzz of conversations to start anew. The Umbarian whispered something in Malko´s ears, nodding many times with his head. Himilkar arched an eyebrow with what Zarhil was already learning to identify as Gadirite disdain, and Azzibal laughed.

"Because this is the best they can do!"

Magon shook his head.

"Now, this is a way of putting it." he conceded. "But, my lady, I would rather say that those jokes do not come with malicious intent. Most of them like us, even if it may seem a strange kind of love for an outsider. The hatred and violence would only begin if one of us started it first, and that we will never do, because we know that even if our names are known in the whole world, we are in minority upon this bare rock. "He allowed himself a brief smile. "They like us to pretend that we are very angry, though."

Zarhil nodded with a frown. That reasoning seemed crooked and unnatural, but then, so were merchants. Not for the first time, and in spite of its beauty, she felt glad that she did not live in such a city.

While she was thinking of a reply, the Umbarian intervened in the conversation.

"Sometimes it does get a bit trying, however." he grumbled, with his mouth half-full. "I come here all the way from Umbar to see a decent musical spectacle, and then I find that all halls are closed because of that cursed festival!"

Iolid interrupted her conversation with her sister-in-law, and gestured with her chin towards a corner. Following her glance, Zarhil noticed for the first time that five people were sitting there, holding instruments upon their laps.

"If you excuse me for a moment, good sir, two of our musicians here are stars of the public theatre." she said. "While you are staying as a guest in our house, you will not miss anything that our fair city can offer."

The Umbarian offered her a bow.

"Many thanks, lady, and I apologise to Magon for my words." The Gadirite merchant shrugged goodnaturedly, and sipped some wine. "And do not think I am looking down on your customs. In fact, even this Festival would be welcome in the pestilent sewer where I live. Adunakhôr the Great´s Magnificent Colony of Umbar! "he snorted, raising his glass." Full of useless sects of philosophers who spend their days in contemplation of the Greatest Good. Of harebrained soldiers getting drunk at daytime. And the populace would not have such a refined sense of humour –oh, no, those half-barbarians only know how to revolt whenever there is an infection in the dog-meat they eat. If it wasn´t for us merchants, there would be nothing else than ruins in Umbar today!"

"The Gadirites knew since the beginning how to keep the barbarians at arm´s length." Azzibal nodded with a smile. "And effectively, I might add. They do not even feel offended for not knowing how to swim."

"And yet Umbar has its own fields, and people to till them, while we depend on others to feed us." Himilkar objected, disguising his obvious pride at their insularity under a veil of modesty. Malko sought for Zarhil´s glance, and his lips curved in a grin.

She let go of a sigh, somehow glad to be ignored for awhile. Her social skills had never been good, and those people had a way to make one feel stupid all the time.

And still, as she was about to pick another crab leg, the door opened in full for a sucession of servants, who came towards her carrying all kinds of objects of luxury.

"Uhar told me that you wanted to buy offrands for the temple of Melkor." Magon explained. She stared at him, surprised –was he actually thinking of selling things to her during dinner? "A wise course of action, obviously- as you well know, my lady, the Great God of the Island tends to be angry at ships who head for Númenor before paying their respects."

Realising that what she considered to be so strange was rather the rule among those merchants, Zarhil left her wine aside with a longing glance, and focused on the things that Magon –a wonderful seller- showed her with all the ponderings of an expert. Painted ostrich eggs, cloaks dyed with the purple shell of Belfalas, jars of coloured glass, necklaces where gems alternated with glass beads painted in the shape of eyes – Magon had everything.

A bit overwhelmed, she did nothing but nod at the things she was shown, choosing one or two to look at them closely, until he picked the last of those items, a delicate bough sculpted in silver adorned with pale blue gems.

"What is this?" she asked. Magon stared at it appreciatively, then shook his head.

"No. Not appropriate. My mistake."

"What is it?" she repeated. She had seen a similar thing somewhere...

"The Great God of the Island would not like this as gift." he explained. "A very old legend says that, when the ships of the colonisers arrived to this island for the first time, their leader, grateful for having escaped the perils of a tempest, offered his bough of return to the Lady and forgot to honour Melkor. Angry at this oversight, the Great God caused an earthquake, threatening to sink the island under the waters. "He made a pause to eat a bite, then continued. "A woman that came with the expedition immediately had a fire built, and offered to throw herself into the flames to appease Melkor´s anger. She would have perished if it had not been for the Lady, who does not forget those who honour her. When she saw the fire, she unleashed a storm and quenched it as many times as they tried to lit it anew. Thankful at her intervention, the woman´s family had five of those silver boughs made. They were distant ancestors of mine."

Fascinated in spite of herself, Zarhil stared at the bough with a frown.

"And this is one of those?"

"A family heirloom, yes. I would gratefully sell it to a noble lady such as you." At the other side of the table Malko, who had heard this, rolled his eyes. "But it would never do as an offrand for the God of the Island."

Zarhil shook her head. Maybe he was lying – and still, if there was an ounce of truth in his story, she had found the best present for her beloved Goddess.

"I will buy it, and offer it to the Sacred Cave tomorrow. I have a deep devotion for the Lady." she added, in a lower tone. Magon´s features creased into a smile –the golden tinge had never been so evident in them as now.

"Of course, there is no need for you to pay now, my lady. My associates will have it from your family on their next trip to Númenor, or however it might be more comfortable for the Lord Zarhâd of Soronthil."

Zarhil shook her head. His father had told her that those people loved to have illustrious names on the list of their debitors –for them, it was a form of prestige.

"There is gold on my ship. I will pay you tomorrow, when yor men come to get the sample of oil that I promised you." she established, firmly. In some disappointment, he nodded, and ordered the servants to leave with both the chosen and discarded items.

At the other side of the table, meanwhile, the conversation had shifted towards the topic of an impending official declaration of war against the desert tribes near Umbar. Himilkar had changed his seat for the couch that lay next to Malko and Abdeshmoun, and Magon´s sister was resting her head against his shoulder. Her curly brown hair fell down her back, mingled with some whitish locks that looked like the effect of some outlandish dye.

Only Azzibal remained with them, savouring a dish of raw oysters in lemon.

"Do you find them to your liking?" Iolid, always the perfect hostess, inquired. The Sorian nodded as he chewed.

"I had not tasted something as good since... well, at least since I stayed at the palace of King Xaris three years ago."

Iolid and her husband exchanged ominous glances at this. Xaris was the leader of the barbarians of Belfalas, who had achieved a commendable degree of civilisation from their centuries of contact with the Númenoreans of Gadir. Before Zarhil had had time to realise what was going on, Magon stood up, and gestured to the servants.

"Bring the sturgeon eggs and the sauce!"

Azzibal snorted, taking another oyster.

"Those brave Gadirites! In their infinite wisdom, their ancestors passed a law restricting the height of towers – if not, they would still be measuring the work of the others and adding inch after inch until they reached the sky!"

"Oh, years ago, there was that tree competition." Iolid said, sharing in the joke good-naturedly. "They brought trees of all kinds and places to the squares and gardens of Gadir, from the uttermost East and South. Few of those took root- a real pity."

"Ah, I remember." Azzibal nodded. "The most celebrated were those giant trees that came from an island in the Far South. By the way, Magon, which one did you bring?"

Magon shook his head in affected disdain.

"I was deep in talks to bring the White Tree of Armenelos to the gardens of Gadir."

Zarhil stared at him, astonished, but her shock subsided when she saw Iolid and Azzibal begin to laugh. Still, some puzzlement remained there, refusing to die –one could never know much of what those slippery people said was intended as a joke.

"Always the ambitious Magon of Gadir." Azzibal muttered, fondly.

In the other conversation, the tone had been raised, as all three men heartily agreed that a war against the desert tribes was the worst idea that the King could have had at that very moment.

"Now that we were attempting a recuperation of the trade, they want to scare our customers away! We cannot tolerate this!" the Umbarian exclaimed. Himilkar shook his head.

"Indeed, we cannot tolerate this."

Magon took an oyster from Azzibal´s dish, and smiled.

"Then, our weapons industry will suffer from an unprecedented crisis this year. Deal?"

Somewhat placated. Abdeshmoun raised his glass.

"Deal. But keep your promises this time, Magon."

Vaguely aware of what had just taken place in front of her, Zarhil´s face went pale, and she fixed her glance on the half-empty cup that lay upon her lap.

\----------

"I cannot stand those people. I _cannot_! Their very deference is arrogant. Did you hear them ... sabotaging the King´s policies?"

Malko shook his head noncomittally, as if her words were nothing but the ramblings of a drunkard. This made her even more furious: it was true that she had drunk a little more than what she should, but he was the one who was having difficulties trying to walk back to his rooms in a straight line.

"Now, _what_ do you say?"

He shrugged.

"They are arrogant, that much is true. But they are powerful, and that is true as well. So frighteningly, fucking powerful. "He shook his head, watching the lights of the coutryard from the corridor windows. "The most poweful of lords has no authority beyond the boundaries of his vast lands. But those... those merchants, those people, who do not own an inch of land, rule over the seas and control the trade of whole realms, many of which we do not even know about. Who would put a boundary to this?"

Zarhil shivered, whether because of the cold or the disgust, she was not sure.

"Stop... talking in this strain. You are wrecking my resolve to go back to Númenor, if it will be to marry one of them!"

"What?" Slowly, the impact of the news triggered a reaction on Malko´s alcohol-abused mind. His lips began to curve into a smile. "So it _was_ true..."

Zarhil blushed to the roots of her hair. The wine had made her careless.

"I know of no other possible reason why my family would send ships all the way to Aiboshim and Asido to summon me back." she grumbled. "And just _congratula_ te me, and I will have you thrown overboard into the Great Sea when we are in the middle of our return journey. The noblest families of Númenor do not want me, and I have no idea of which kind of ambitious commoner will settle for an old, ugly, eccentric and probably barren woman."

"You are lovely to my eyes." he muttered, after weathering the storm with the blissful level of calm that only wine could bring. Zarhil kicked him on the shin, and turned away with a huff.

"Ouch!"

"You ignoble flatterer! " she hissed. But then she seemed to relent, and sighed. "I knew I would have to marry one day. That I could not remain like this forever, whatever the choice. But to see those people today... I do not want to be a high-born trophy for any of them!"

Malko shook his head, kneeling to rub his leg on the spot where she had kicked him. In Zarhil´s current state, even his silence was infuriating.

"Go and sleep it off." she growled.

Before she could leave definitely for her chambers, however, he heard his voice behind her again.

"You are an extraordinary woman, my lady. You will not be a trophy for any man –that much I know."

Zarhil turned back to stare at him, searching for signs of mockery in his tone. Finding none that would give her an excuse to yell at him, she took off at a brisk pace, and started muttering things under her teeth.

_Extraordinary-_ indeed.

That night, she dreamed that she was in the Palace of Armenelos, singing the ditty about Gimilzôr´s love life. Outraged at her irreverence, the priests tied her up, and conjured the fire of Melkor to fall upon her. She was afraid and desperately prayed to the Lady for deliverance, but there were no signs of rain in the sky.

Finally, it was Magon and his associates who poured basin after basin of water over her until she was delivered from the flames, and then he asked for her hand in return.

(to be continued)

\----------

(1) I know that there is a lot of explaining due here. Unfortunately, not all things can be given away just yet.

First, as to why the name Pelargir has been temporally changed- the reason will be eventually given.

Second –and more important-.as to why its location is different (after reading this chapter, the knowledgeable in Middle Earth cartography will have recognised it as the later island of Tolfalas), it will also be an issue later. I can only promise that both things will be explained, justified and solved, and that it will be according to canon. I hope.


	17. A Wedding of Importance

This is a Chapter of Importance about a Wedding of Importance. This is why it took two months to correct. Yeah. :)

**A Wedding of Importance**

She was waiting for him on a low seat, staring through the window with an unreadable look. Her black hair was firmly braided over her head, yet there were some rebellious strands bristling behind her ears. She had darker skin than anyone of the line of Elros that he had ever met, marinaded and hardened through long years by the sun and the sea winds.

When his footsteps alerted her of his presence, she seemed to come back from her musings with a blink, and promptly stood up to greet him. Inziladûn thought at first that she was frowning, then realised that her forehead had a conspicuous wrinkle in the space between the eyes. _From staring into the horizon for prolonged amounts of time_ , he guessed, remembering all the rumours.

"My lord Inziladûn." she bowed. Her voice was deep, and also somewhat hoarse. Inziladûn answered her greeting with perfect politeness, and studied her closer.

As he had feared, though a stubborn part of himself had still dared to hope, there was not a single thing in common between this woman and his cherished memories of Artanis, with her soft white skin and quiet grace. This woman was plain, uncomfortable in her green and golden velvet dress. She had a harsh face with marked lines, and grey eyes that stared at him without love.

"I am pleased to meet you at last." he said, forcing his voice to sound sincere. "Sit down, if you wish."

The woman sat down, asessing him sharply at the same time. Inziladûn followed her example, choosing a chair that was next to her own seat. He felt a brief current of hostility coming from her, and blinked.

As if his dismay had not escaped her attention, her lips curved into an exaggeratedly pleasant smile.

"This is not the first time that we meet." she corrected, and a nervous chuckle escaped her throat. "On the day of your public consecration, I held you in my arms. You yanked at my hair very hard, and I told my mother that it was as well that I did not have children, since they did not seem to like me very much. "A frown of thoughtfulness creased her forehead even further for a moment. "I am not very likeable."

Inziladûn swallowed, appalled. Either her hostility towards him was too strong to bother with dissimulations, or she was the least diplomatic person that he had ever met.

As he looked at her hair, he realised that there was already a tinge of silver on one of the sides of her head. Unbidden thoughts haunted his mind, and he was forced to remember that this woman was older than his mother.

"You are uncomfortable." she suddenly threw at him, without bothering to make it a question.

He shook his head in silence. What had his father been thinking about?

" _The lady Zarhil is the daughter of Zarhâd of Forostar, descendant of King Anárion, and a lady of many merits." Gimilzôr said, guessing the displeasure under his son´s briefly shaken mask. Inziladûn barely had time to swallow before the words came to his mouth in a rush._

" _But..."_

" _Unlike what you might think, this is a gift." Gimilzôr interrupted him. "I hold this lady in the greatest esteem since even before you were born, and I deem her the only woman in Númenor who might have enough resilience to manage your family." Giving his son a pointed look, he frowned in advertence. "Fail to make her happy, and I swear to you that I will not be as lenient as that spineless king Meneldur."_

_For a second, Inziladûn was tempted to ask him if he was supposed to treat her like Gimilzôr had treated Inzilbêth. Fortunately, he managed to swallow the dangerous words in time, and silently bowed to leave._

"I..." he began, searching for one of those uncompromising sentences that could be recited flawlessly in awkward moments. But while he had never been at loss for words in interviews with princes of the realm, priests, courtiers and even Merchant Princes, he felt incapable to recall them now in this woman´s presence.

_His future Queen._

"Nice weather, isn´t it?" she said, with a pointed look.

Inzuladûn felt clearly that he was being ridiculed. Repressing a growing exasperation, he forgot all ceremonies, and stared at her hard. She seemed a bit surprised at his sudden action, yet withstood his glance like she would have withstood the sunrays upon the prow of her ship.

As he had partly guessed, there was a great irritation boiling inside her. She had been taken away from ship and seas, and travels to distant lands. Without telling her beforehand, her family had betrothed her to a much younger man with a reputation for all sorts of unnatural behaviour, who would probably despise her.

Then, the obvious dawned upon him, and his anger would have dissolved in an impulse to laugh at the situation if it had not been so serious for both of them. Because, in fact, their irritation was of an exactly _identical_ nature.

He coughed several times, in order to clear his throat.

"If you would be so kind as to listen to me for a moment." he began. Her eyes narrowed, and he realised that he had her attention. "We have been both forced to renounce to our pursuits. We have never seen each other in our lives. And this ignorance of ours has been seasoned with quite... _interesting_ stories about our respective selves, I will dare to presume." Her stare turned to sheer incredulity, and he felt encouraged." Because of this, we are feeling angry at each other, and naturally so. And yet, I may propose another way to deal with this."

" _Another... way to deal with this_?"

"Indeed. None of us decided this marriage, and therefore none of us is to blame. We could be friends and allies to each other, and direct our discontent towards our noble families, who decided to put us through this situation."

Zarhil´s eyes had widened in shock, and for a moment she studied him as if he had gone mad. Inziladûn felt incommodated, wondering if he might have simply confirmed her fears about his sanity.

As he was about to open his mouth again, though, the tension contracted her features, and exploded in a powerful laugh. The man stared in fascination as she almost doubled over from unleashed mirth, until she finally sobered up and raised a reddened face to meet his.

"That was... well, an unusual betrothal speech." she gasped, letting her glance trail over him in a newfound admiration. "So... it is true that you see into the hearts of people!"

"So they say." he muttered, uncomfortable as whenever this topic was breached in his presence.

Still, in another recess of his brain, her sudden change of mind about him heartened him a little. She accepted his logic. Maybe things could be... manouevred into some sort of comfortable arrangement, after all.

"You are right, they told me you were strange. " _The son of the Prince, who has the eyes of an Elf and the beard of a barbarian_." "she quoted, with a more comfortable smile. He smiled, too, darkly amused at the comparison.

"And I heard of an Elf-woman who wanes and dies if she spends a month ashore." he retaliated. Just as the words left his mouth, however, he caught a pair of eyes suddenly clouded by a veil of melancholy. He cursed.

"I am sorry." he offered. "We... could travel to the seaside, from time to time, if duty allows."

She shook her head, and made a sharp gesture of denial with her hand.

"You should not mind me." she grumbled, closing her eyes only to open them again with a sigh. "I am past eighty already. My years of freedom have been fulfilling, and I have enjoyed them for a longer time than you did. If someone has to apologise, it should be me."

For a while, both of them just sat there, in a decidedly bleak silence. Then, Inziladûn shook out from his reverie, and made an attempt to lighten up the mood.

"But we are talking as if this we are facing was a death sentence! Our married life will surely not be as terrible as Eternal Darkness, though it might be close enough at times. And I am _not_ going to shave." he added jokingly.

Zarhil smiled a little.

"And I am not going to dye my grey hairs, though my mother already suggested it. Each of them was well-earned, indeed." she replied in the same vein. "As for the beard, to shave on a ship is unheard-of for most sailors, and yours at least is better kept."

"I see." he nodded, slightly amused. _So she had a sense of humour, too._ "Things can always be worse."

"Like they say when you get caught up in a storm and then someone finds a leak."

Inziladûn stared at her, remembering the things he had heard about this woman since he was a child.

"You must have many tales to tell." he assumed, in a tone that, for the first time in the whole exchange, contained a vague admiration. She creased her features in a gesture of dubious meaning.

"I suppose. I have done some... odd things."

He snorted.

"And my father said that you would supply our marriage with common sense!"

"Did he?" She looked genuinely surprised, and maybe a little flattered. "The Prince is too kind."

"He likes you."

Zarhil mulled this over for a moment. Standing up, she paced towards the window, and became absorbed in the view of the Blue gardens.

"I would have needed to guess as much." she said, after a long pause. Her voice was strangely regretful. "You know that I may... well, that old saying about my family."

Surprised, Inziladûn looked up.

"What?"

The woman seemed to notice his shock, and tensed. The ease that they had been building for the past minutes dissolved in a rush, and she turned back with a blush.

"You have _never heard_?"

Inziladûn shook his head in denial, his alarm growing by moments.

"The women of the Northern line do not bear sons. "She seemed pained at her own words, as if she was going to be shamed for them. "People like to say that those things are nothing but superstitions... and still..."

The man stared at the ivory table in front of him, refusing to look at her as he forced himself to put his thoughts in order. The first idea that came to his mind was that Gimilzôr had to be aware of that saying. The second was that his plan was probably to have Gimilkhâd succeed him by depriving him of heirs, and thus make sure from an early date that his elder son´s dangerous influence would not last.

The third was that he did not believe in superstitions.

"Nobody can know that about a woman." he said, meanwhile, in an attempt to ease her discomfort. How could she have imagined that his father would forget to tell him about such a thing?

"Many people believe they do." she muttered. He shook his head in dismissal.

_How much could a mere superstition be worth, anyway?_ His father was one to believe in all those things with unquestionable faith –superstitions, prophecies, visions. Inziladûn had been visited by those powers from a very young age, and could make more sense of them than most. He knew when they were real, and when they were nothing but the effects of an imagination run wild. And would Eru suffer Inziladûn´s heartfelt attempts to have Númenor regain its purity to be foiled in such a crude fashion?

He bit his lip, full of a warm, renewed defiance. For a moment, he remembered Gimilkhâd´s expression as he handed the incriminating note to him, and refused, against all the expectations that his father had held since the day of his birth, to bring ruin upon their kin of the West.

_He would not be defeated that way._

"I do not." he said to her. Invitingly, he stretched his right hand, and she stared at it for a while before advancing several steps. "And my father, who is a wiser man than most, did not even think twice about such a superstition."

Zarhil´s hand finally touched his. It shocked him at first how hard it felt from its calluses, a little like tanned leather.

"I do not know." she sighed. Her eyes met his, and brightened up somewhat. "But thanks for encouraging me."

He arched an eyebrow, softly pressing her fingers to explore the new feeling.

"I was also encouraging myself." he added flippantly, before quickly changing subject. "Now, would you care to take a walk through the gardens? I think it will be - expected of our first meeting."

Without further ado, she gave a step backwards, and helped him to get up with a pull. He saw the lean yet strong muscles of her arms, and, once again, blinked.

"Let us go, then." she nodded.

\----------

For the next years, Inziladûn set his mind to discover and list all of Zarhil´s good traits. She was a strong woman, an adventurous sailor in a family of warriors. The magnificence of the Palace of Armenelos and the flattery of the courtiers meant little to her, and she felt uncomfortable with the ostentatious displays of Gimilzôr´s court- in which she was of like mind to Inziladûn himself.

Another thing that he discovered was that all her forwardness enveloped a rather shy core, and that she did not like interacting with people. Both at home and in Armenelos, she had no friends other than the men she took in her ship. Once that he earned her trust from assiduity, however, it struck him that she was an a friendly companion, and an excellent storyteller. Many of their afternoons together were spent with Inziladûn listening in quiet awe to fantastical tales about floating islands of ice, strange animals that ran over the water or followed ships with open, hungry jaws, and fire mountains that spat frozen lava.

In those ocassions he would look at her, and she would suddenly appear different to him; a creature of legend, a hero of tales like the king Aldarion son of Meneldur. And then, even the pronounced wrinkles in her forehead, the hardness of her skin, the dark colour of her face and the shadow of silver in her hair would gain a new meaning, and seem beautiful.

There were other, less pleasant things to take in account as well. In spite of her efforts, Zarhil could not hide her dislike for the gilded prison of Armenelos where she would have to spend her life, and some part of Inziladûn could not help wondering how long would it take for her to resent _him_ for it. Her difficulties to adapt to court life were much greater than those of Inziladûn himself. Seeing how she reacted to her new duties, he realised for the first time that his own shortcomings in that field had stemmed mainly from his own wilfulness, and not from any real incapacity. And the courtiers did not forgive breaches of protocol, so soon the whole Palace was swarming with witticisms, jokes and rhymes about their shocking new Princess.

All this, however, was not as worrying to Inziladûn´s mind as other things that escaped public notice. For example, there was Zarhil´s deep devotion to the Queen of the Seas, who had saved her from so many dangers. His indifference on this matter hurt her, and he foresaw greater complications when he became King –or when they had children.

He tried not to think of Artanis, though she was often in his thoughts. In spite of the fact that he had grown to like Zarhil, there were times when he could not prevent himself from comparing her natural grace to Zarhil´s clumsiness, the soft ripple of laughter that came from her throat to the other woman´s raspy chuckles. He remembered the warmth of her embrace, that morning when his mind had been tangled in cold conflict, and how she had always read in his mind, with the mysterious power of an Elf, what she needed to say or do to give him comfort.

He remembered the first night when she had seen her, the billows of her white dress flying with the breeze as she walked under the trees of malinornë, like Lúthien in the forests of Doriath. And then, her last tears as she left him alone, under the same trees, her heart broken in exquisite silence.

_She knew that we could not have possibly married_ , he said to himself, trying to banish her from his mind and focus on the woman that his father had chosen. And yet, in his most unguarded moments she still haunted him, when he lay on his bed awake or deep in the world of dreams.

Two years after they had met, sitting on the dishevelled grass of his own garden with a mountain of fig peelings between them, Inziladûn asked Zarhil to marry him. She stared at her incredulously and laughed –the right answer to his involvement in this long farce of their betrothal.

Gimilzôr took the news very favourably. It puzzled Inziladûn to see how Zarhil affected even the usual coldness of his father towards him. Back when he had told him that he held the lady in great esteem, he had thought it nothing but another element of his father´s elaborate revenge against his wayward son, but in time he had come to have the distinct feeling that Gimilzôr _had_ spoken the truth at least in this. With a slightly warmer glint in his dark eyes, he ruled that the wedding would take place in early summer, in the Palace of Armenelos, and that the celebration would reach all Númenor and the Middle-Earth colonies.

\----------

As the day of the wedding drew near, the streets of Armenelos were set with the most colourful hangings. People crowded the streets from the North Residence to the Palace hill, eager to catch a glimpse of the bridal entourage and fighting for an advantageous place before the royal gates, where they could see the entrance of the new Princess and get themselves a good helping at the various food and wine distributions.

Covered by her red veil, Zarhil´s face could not be seen, but Inziladûn was able to perceive the tension in her erect back and high chin. As was custom, the priests of Melkor took her away from the priests of Ashtarte-Uinen that came in her entourage and dragged her across the threshold. Then, both drank from the same goblet of consecrated wine under the eyes of the gods and the King, and the feast began in the main hall.

Preparations for the banquet had lasted more than a month, with the clear purpose of turning this event into a milestone for royal magnificence. The dishes were served on silverware from the factories of Gadir, and seasoned with Umbar spices. Meat of eight different kinds had been brought from the plains of Hyarnustar, while the fruit belonged to the King´s own gardens south of the Forbidden Bay. There were also great quantities of wine with honey, and the best musicians, singers and dancers of the capital entertained the guests with various performances.

Inziladûn watched all this from his father´s side, away from the raised voices, the laughter and the merriment. He was not fond of feasting; he had few friends among the guests and none he could freely speak to. Artanis had not come: someone had needed to stay in Andúnië while the rest of her family was here, and she had offered to do so herself.

From the corner of his eye, he realised that Gimilzôr had finished his little conversation with the King, and was now walking towards him. At once, he discarded his musings and prepared himself to be addressed, but instead of doing so, his father stopped in his tracks and stared at some point of the hall with a pensive frown.

Following his glance in some curiosity, Inziladûn saw his bride sitting on a chair. She was still tense, and busy at yanking the long ends of her red veil away from the two little daughters of her brother Zakarbal, who ran in laughing circles around her.

"You should summon her." Gimilzôr said. Inziladûn suppressed his surprise carefully, and nodded.

"I will." he replied.

Before his father could begin organising the chain of messengers that would reach her, he bowed quickly, and downstairs he went. The courtiers who waited there bowed to him, with the good reflexes that they had acquired from fifty years of his oddities.

In the first table, Gimilkhâd was drinking with a few friends, and raised the jar to him when he saw him approach.

"Ha, Inziladûn!" he called "Here, have a glass for yourself before you retire for the night! You will certainly need it- won´t he?"

The other men smiled a bit sheepishly, then laughed a little louder as his boldness encouraged them. Inziladûn passed them by, not deigning to pay them any heed.

Since that fatidical night, two years ago, his younger brother had known several phases. At first he had avoided him as much as he could, but after a while his exuberance had returned, louder and wittier than ever. Inziladûn was always the target of his jokes, and his older brother was quite sure that he could claim autorship of a good half of the rhymes about his wife.

And yet, he never saw him alone anymore. Friends and courtiers surrounded him, like a warrior´s trained escort.

Númendil and his betrothed, Emeldir, were watching the starlit gardens from a terrace. Inziladûn shook his head and left them to their privacy, wondering if those two would ever marry. The strong Elven blood of Númendil seemed to have frozen his maturity to a mysterious halt, and the lady was something between his friend and the object of his quiet adoration.

Not that he could say anything different from the women of his own life,Inziladûn reminded himself then, but his thoughts stopped abruptly when he found himself face to face with Valandil.

"Allow me to offer my most sincere congratulations on the auspicious event of your wedding day, my lord." the older man recited with a deep bow. Inziladûn nodded, incommodated.

"I am sorry. I would... apologise to her if I could." he whispered, almost between clenched teeth. Valandil rose, and stared at him lengthly with undecipherable eyes.

"You do not have to, my lord. "he finally said. For a moment, it seemed as if he was going to say something else, but then he shook his head and offered him a smile of encouragement. "One day, everything will change."

Inziladûn nodded again, and continued his walk through the hall. Nearby, he spotted Eärendur with his daughter-in-law, talking among themselves. He gave them a mere nod, not wishing his father to grow suspicious.

_Everything would change._ Alas, for her it would be too late then.

Zarhil´s family gave him a warm welcome. The lords of Soronthil had not married into the royal family for centuries, since the alliances with the Eastern and Western governors had been favoured by the lineage of Ar-Adunakhôr. _This_ lord of Soronthil, moreover, had despaired long ago of finding a husband for his strange daughter, so this marriage had been, for him, the crowning bliss of a long life of service and few favours. No matter what people whispered about his oddities, Inziladûn had promptly become the object of his most sincere devotion and gratitude –gratitude that, the Prince´s heir could not help but think one more time as he was pulled into a world of bows, compliments, congratulations and offers, would properly belong to Gimilzôr. But his father, working and planning in the shadows and standing at a great, elevated distance even as he drank wine in his son´s wedding feast, did not encourage many feelings of thankfulness.

When he finally reached her, Zarhil was hissing at the smallest of her two nieces, a plump-faced girl of about four who had somehow managed to get the veil tangled all over her legs.

"Of all the little pests in the world, you are the very worst! Now, go to your mother at this very instant and be good and quiet or I _swear_...!"

Her scolding was brusquely interrupted as she became aware of Inziladûn´s presence in front of her. The girls also stopped wiggling and stared at him in wide-eyed awe.

"Who are you?" the elder of them inquired. Zarhil shook her head with a snort, and began to arrange the dishevelled veil over her lap again.

Inziladûn stared back at her, mystified. It was the first time he was confronted by someone who was young enough not to care for manners.

"I am the husband of the lady Zarhil." he replied carefully, after a moment of thought. The face of the younger of the girls was immediately scrunched up in an expression of horror.

"Aunt, did you marry a man with hair on his face?"

Inziladûn froze. The older of the two girls elbowed her sister and hissed that she was not being nice.

Zarhil´s bad mood dissolved in a fit of hilarity.

"Go back to your mother now." she told the girls. She was still shaking from suppressed mirth even as she shooed them away. "If you behave yourselves, I will not tell her what has been said here."

The daughters of Zakarbal nodded, and reluctantly took away, whispering amongst themselves. Even after they had reached their mother´s side, Inziladûn could see them turn back now and then to steal curious looks at him.

"That was very funny." Zarhil said. Inziladûn nodded in silence.

"Are we going to... retire already?" she asked after a while. There was a brief hesitation in her voice as she said those words, but under the thick red folds, Inziladûn could not detect if it was nervousness or a simply inquiring tone.

"I do not like partying very much." he confessed, with a soft sigh. Under the King´s throne, six dancers were moving their jewelled arms to the sound of a flute. People around them had begun talking louder, so the music would not overshadow their voices. "And you must be choking under that veil."

Zarhil shrugged.

"I am. But out there, I do not know what I would have done without it." she confessed. "I was really nervous, Inziladûn. The whole of Númenor was there... _staring_ at me."

"And you will grow used to their stares until you even forget that they are there." he predicted.

"I can still flee this place at night and make it to my ship before the guard finds me." she threatened, standing up. With a gesture, she signalled him to wait while she bade farewell to her family and listened to their well-meaning advice –a long process, even though they had no plans of leaving overnight-, and readied herself to follow him.

Though Inziladûn took care to avoid the center of the hall, many of the guests, merry from the high-quality wine, still toasted to them and shot their congratulations as they walked towards the stairs of the throne. Predictably, when they could finally bow in front of him, Gimilzôr was furious.

"Did you have to shame yourself and your wife in such a manner on the very evening of your wedding day?" he hissed. Inziladûn lowerd his eyes in respect.

"I am sorry. I wanted to talk to her family before we retired."

" _Already_?"

"This veil is choking me, my lord prince." Zarhil intervened. Gimilzôr´s wrath turned into an almost _comical_ look of surprise, and he turned his attention towards her.

"Is... it?"

Inziladûn blinked. He had never heard his father ask a redundant question before.

"It... has become worse after so many hours." Zarhil nodded, now in a somewhat lower voice. "If we could retire to the privacy of our chambers..."

Gimilzôr made a hurried gesture to cut her talk. His features softened.

"I understand your plight, daughter. You may go, if you wish." Then, he turned back to Inziladûn. "Present your respects to the King."

Inziladûn bowed, taking Zarhil by the hand. She promptly mirrored her gesture, and together, they approached the throne of Ar-Sakalthôr.

The last decades had not been kind to the old man´s appearance. His body had always been thin, but now the bony fingers that held the Sceptre reminded Inziladûn of a skeleton. His face was pale and sunk, and in the middle of it, two huge, alert eyes gleamed with a light that became fell whenever he set them on his elder grandson.

Inziladûn remembered a time when, as a child, he had been brought to his grandfather´s chambers and forced to kneel in front of him. Ar-Sakalthôr had been silent, until the confused child lifted his head and tried to investigate the identity of the dark figure. Then, his grandfather´s face became livid, and he began to move his hands, hissing at him to leave his presence at once. Little Inziladûn, terrified, ran to hide behind his father, who laid a hand on his shoulder and told him to leave while levelling the cause of the child´s fears with a harsh, unintimidated glance.

Back then, Inziladûn had been admired at his father´s bravery. Only later, much later, he had come to understand that, though there was and would always be a current of dark suspicion and visions between the King and his two heirs, Ar-Sakalthôr was in fact the weakest and more frightened of the three.

And more than what he had ever feared Gimilzôr, his grandfather feared _him_.

"My wife and I ask for your leave to retire, my lord king, favourite of Melkor, protector of Númenor and guardian of the colonies." he recited, kneeling and bowing in front of the throne. Zarhil knelt too, again as tense as she had been during the ceremony and a good part of the feast. She had only seen Ar-Sakalthôr in a few official or religious circumstances before, but the tales she had heard about the recluse sovereign were obviously weighing on her mind.

This time, however, the King seemed oddly subdued, maybe under the effects of the wine. Mumbling something, he leaned back and took a large sip of his cup.

"Leave." he ordered more than acquiesced, in a cutting tone. Inziladûn bowed again, and stood up together with Zarhil. As they reached the door, a brief silence fell upon the hall, and the guests bowed to them.

Finally alone in the deserted corridor, where the sounds of the accursed feast only arrived in distant, distorted waves, Inziladûn yanked his wife´s cover away from her head. Drops of sweat glistened over her forehead, but her lips curved in a tired smile as, finally, they were allowed to look at each other.

"Thank you." she beamed, combing her dishevelled hair with one hand.

He nodded in silence, and felt a brief flash of childish satisfaction as they walked past the red veil that had been abandoned on the floor.


	18. The Merchant Princes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever knows me can tell that I have never been a review-monger or anything of the sort. But I feel it is really time to address this issue. Please – if there is anyone reading this, I would like to know. I don´t know about others, but for ME, correcting and reorganising chapters for publication is harder than writing them, and I would be very happy to stop taking the trouble.

**Author´s note:** Whoever knows me can tell that I have never been a review-monger or anything of the sort. But I feel it is really time to address this issue. Please – if there is anyone reading this, I would like to know. I don´t know about others, but for ME, correcting and reorganising chapters for publication is harder than writing them, and I would be very happy to stop taking the trouble.

Thanks.

**The Merchant Princes**

_Year 3102 – 69th year of the reign of Ar-Sakalthôr_

 Once that he was inside her, he stopped for a moment to look at her face. Her eyes were dark with need, and she sought for his hand, which she held in a strong grip.

With a barely undiscernable nod, he began riding her. The pace was slow, but it slowly increased as her gasps became louder and louder.

When it was finished, he carefully disentangled himself and fell at her side, both holding each other close and listening to their hard breathing. Her callused hand moved distractedly towards his shoulder, where it drew random caressing circles.

Inziladûn stared pensively at the painted figurines on the wall.

"Do you already bleed?" he mumbled after a while. Zarhil´s hand froze.

"I do _not_." she replied, all her warmth gone. Though she did not pull away, her husband could easily perceive the rigidity in her limbs, and cursed at his poor choice of words.

"I am sure it will come eventually." he offered, trying to sound hopeful and conciliating.

"And if it does not come?" she asked, refusing to take the cue. He stared at her.

"Zarhil..."

She shook her head violently.

"What about the day when you will be sure that I will not be able to bear your child? Will you come to me anymore? Do you care about the cursed superstition, yes or _not_?"

Inziladûn did not answer for a moment, as he tried to think of what to do to prevent this situation from escalading further. He had been aware for a while of her mood, which had only been waiting for an opportunity to show and cause a quarrel.

When Zarhil was not happy, when she felt the walls of Armenelos creeping over her and blocking her from her beloved sea, left aside from the comings and goings of the palace or mocked by the courtiers, she always found a pretext to fight. In a question of seconds, it escaladed into a shouting match, and sometimes she would break things.

This pattern had become more and more frequent in the last years, feeding from the feeling of frustration that slowly took hold of both of them because of her unability to conceive. Her impatience grew with his own, and no matter how he tried, he had always proved unable to stop either of them.

"I am the second heir to the throne of Númenor, Zarhil." he tried to explain in a patient tone, even as the feeling began to take hold on him again. "One day, I will be King, and then I will need my line to continue."

"Then, why did you marry me?" she shouted, already at the end of her short patience. "I am old and unsuitable!"

_Because my_ _ **father**_ _wanted me to,_ he thought, seething at the same time at the constraint of his situation.

Had he been too proud when he had laughed the superstition off, so sure that the distant spirit of absolute perfection who created the world would always take the trouble of helping him against Gimilzôr? Or, a darker thought slithered inside his mind –and not for the first time-, were his Western kinsmen too influenced by the comforting figures of the gods of Men, when they imagined the Maker and his Eldest Creatures as kind beings with human shapes and feelings, who followed them, loved and cared for them?

He remembered the feeling of desolation that ran through him on that night in the temple, when he had known, deep inside, that they could not see him. The lord of Andúnië had later endeavoured to banish that cruel thought from his mind, and he had wanted desperately to believe it, just as he had once wanted desperately to believe in the Mother of All.

The black edge of desperation made him cruel.

"The Allfather has probably decreed that I cannot have children with a woman who worships a false goddess." he accused, sitting on the edge of the bed and laying the dishevelled sheets aside. Zarhil´s eyes widened in incredulous rage. Her hands were trembling as she, too, stood up and sought for her clothes, pacing in circles like a lion in a cage.

"Iworship a false goddess? _I_ worship a false goddess? The goddess of your father and your grandfather, and their father and grandfather?" she seethed. "What do you think that they would say if they heard you now?"

He stood his ground, unfazed at the threat. Until this day, Zarhil had been absolutely impervious to his attempts to reform her beliefs, but no matter how angry she was at him, she had never denounced his words to his father. She would not do such a thing.

"I must leave you now. I have more important things to do on the morning than fighting a hysterical woman." he proclaimed, throwing a nightgown over his shoulders and giving her a curt nod. She stared at him, livid.

"Maybe Ashtarte-Uinen has cursed _you_!"

The shout came from behind his back, as he was about to disappear through the gallery that brought him back to his chambers. Ignoring her, he gave a snort and kept walking away from her.

\----------

She was only angry at their repeated failureshe thought, as he walked the corridors of the Main Compound an hour later to meet his father. _As was he._

Still, able now to examine the situation with a clearer head, he could not help feeling ashamed at their behaviour back in Zarhil´s bedchamber, better suited to barbarians than princes of Númenor. How they had yelled, and hurt each other like children who needed to blame someone for being unable to have their way. And now, he knew, _she_ would refuse to see him again for a long time.

_Maybe Ashtarte-Uinen has cursed you!_

Could this hold a part of the truth?, he thought, with a wry smile that rather ressembled a grimace. He remembered the popular tales about Aldarion and Erendis, and how according to them he had been cursed by the goddess for sinning against marriage and forsaking his wife. The truth that was hidden behind those words, for the more rational and learned or simply the more matter-of-factly, was that a man who had proved himself unable to love would be bereaved of any love. And if he, Inziladûn, succeeded into driving Zarhil away from him he would be, truly and finally, bereaved of descendence.

Even as he thought this, a part of himself rebelled fiercely. But it was _she_ whohad started everything. She was the one who found it so difficult to live with him that she did not lose an opportunity to start a quarrel. Before she had asked that accusing, unfair question everything had been well...

With a deep sigh, he recalled their lovemaking. She had been loving, with the tenderness that shone so rarely in her harsh and weather-beaten countenance. He had felt drawn to her, by a natural, spontaneous impulse and not because she had to give him a son before it was too late. For a moment, he had forgotten –until the demanding claims of duty and reality had shaken him off from this carefree state.

As he was deeply engrossed in his musings, his ears barely registered the sound of footsteps over the stone floor of the corridors. When he turned around the corner, and found himself face to face with a large train of men that walked in the opposite direction, only the barest of reflexes prevented the collision.

Fortunately, he managed to stop and regain his composure in time. Then, summoning his observation skills back from their long lethargy, he studied the men in shocked surprise.

They were very richly dressed, with a magnificent array of silks, silver thread and embroideries that seemed only a step away from becoming gaudy. In spite of the brilliance of Gimilzôr´s court there was nothing of that sort to be found in Númenor, and this, together with the arrogant way in which some of the men stared at him, made Inziladûn come to an unpleasant realisation.

"Stand aside for the great Magon, prince of Gadir!" one of them ordered, in a lofty voice with a heavy accent. Inziladûn froze as he recognised the name, but before he could answer, one of the others put a hand over his companion´s shoulder.

"Do not be so insolent in a place you are not familiar with. You might encounter some... surprises." he scolded, with a perfect Númenorean accent, Then, he turned towards Inziladûn with a courteous bow. "Hail, Lord Inziladûn, grandson of Ar-Sakalthôr, favourite of Melkor, protector and guardian of Númenor and its colonies!"

Inziladûn nodded, taken aback at the stranger´s easy and correct guess, and stared at him. His cloak was purple like the robes of the Kings, and he wore a gold band upon his head. He had long hair which fell down his back in many different braids held by silver rings, but what fascinated Inziladûn the most was the strange, golden tinge of his skin.

His eyes were a soft brown, oddly caressing and at the same time scrutinising his features in a mixture of reverence and calculation. Inziladûn felt sized up by them, and immediately adopted a closed expression.

He was in front of a worthy enemy.

"I am pleased to meet you, Magon of Gadir." he replied in an even tone. "I was told of your arrival, but some matters are keeping me busy."

This was a lie, but Inziladûn could not allow anyone to know of his puzzlement at finding those people in Armenelos. In theory, his father should have informed him of their visit, but it had been a long time since Gimilzôr decided to keep his son away from his dealings with the Merchant Princes. His Western kinsmen were unanimous in assessing that this could mean danger to them, but so far the visits had been sparse and in-between.

And never had the first citizen of the ancient Pelargir set a foot on Númenor before.

"We are flattered for this attention, coming from such a noble prince." Magon said, with another bow. "But regretfully, we are leaving Armenelos this very afternoon."

Inziladûn took a breath.

"Then, "he replied, making the Hand sign, "I wish you a good travel under the protection of the Queen of the Seas."

Taking the cue, Magon´s whole retinue bowed to him, and passed him by in a flutter of heavy silks. Inziladûn made semblance of going his own way as well, but after a moment he stopped again on his tracks to stare at their retreating forms with a frown.

_What had that man come to Númenor for?_

_\----------_

" _Will the King sign, then?"_

Gimilzôr´s lip curved into a slight grimace, recalling the man´s shining eyes and his insistent expression. Oh, yes, he was very courteous, and soft-spoken. But as he had learned throughout his dealings with lesser men, ambition was such a raw emotion that, in the end, it oozed through the most skilled of masks.

There were also the airs, a servile insolence that came from that cursed city of merchants. He felt somewhat dirty: none of his predecessors would have received one of them or made dealings with him. But not much, because he knew that there were far more repulsive things, a worse kind of pollution that hid behind a pretence of loyalty perfected through centuries.

_The pollution of those who had bereaved him of his wife and son, and would bereave him of his kingdom._

Gimilzôr had learned much, since that day in which, taken by an ardent wish to be greater than his predecessors and put a definite end to the dangers that assailed the Sceptre, he had defied the council and his newly-proclaimed father by recalling the lord of Andünié. Back then, he had thought that not even Ar-Adunakhôr had known better than him, that nothing could escape his control. That, isolated from their supporters and under the sight of the King, his enemies would not be able to plot treason anymore. He had married their kinswoman to seal the alliance – little could he have imagined that Eärendur would be the one who fooled him in the end!

He had sought to control them through force, they had wormed their way into his affections. Her beauty had clouded his mind, her son´s bright smile had clouded his heart. Their poison had matured through the years, and in the end, the bloodline of the Kings had been defeated.

_Or almost._

Gimilzôr was now an expert in observing, and in waiting. At each year that passed he had become less of a mortal, and more of a reflection of the Divine Melkor, a true King. Inzilbêth had died, Inziladûn had been lost; his heart had shed the last chains.

_He was invulnerable._ He did not want to regain what he had lost, or have revenge on those who had bereaved him. And therefore, the time had arrived.

Methodically, he pushed the documents until they were at the exact centre of the table, and reread the first. The net´s terrible perfection almost made him smile.

" _... and, due to your repeated crimes against Our Majesty, disdaining the sacred links of kinship, fealty, and obligation for past favours, you are commanded to surrender your lands and titles to the King and submit to the custody of Hannishtart of Sor."_

Back when he exiled them, Ar-Adunakhôr had left them their power, their honour, their followers, and freedom of action. Young Gimilzôr, seeking to control them, had allowed them into the inviolable circle of the King´s palace. But now, there would be nothing left to them as they withered in closed chambers in the very centre of the mighty city of Adunakhôr, under the vigilance of the closest client of Magon of Gadir. It was not the King they would have to contend with, but the lust for revenge and power of a class who had collided with them in the past because of their overseas interests, and whom they had despised, relegated and wronged without hope of retaliation. When trade with Elves was forbidden, and the Western line was exiled for the first time, annals said that there had been long and magnificent festivities in Gadir.

The Merchant Princes were men like the others, this he had quickly understood as he dealt with them. They ate and bled, worshipped the gods and loved their women. And yet, among all their affections, it was the desire of riches what truly governed their souls. Riches gave them social status and preeminence among their peers, and ultimately, power over the nobles who held them in contempt yet needed their money to meet the requirements of Court life. Riches were their lands, honours, and titles.

And that was why they would ally themselves with him. They would freely do the dirty work of the Sceptre that destroyed their ancient competitors, offered them monopolies, provided them with armies to subdue the tribes that threatened their exploitation of the silver mines and their dealings with the natives. And they would do it for the sake of Melkor and Armenelos, and above all for the sake of Gimilzôr, the first prince who, against the scandal of his ancestors, had been their friend.

_And today,_ he thought as he leafed slowly through a copy of the second, unread document, _our alliance will finally be sealed._

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps behind the door of his study took him away from his musings. He raised his head, and pushed the papers away.

"Yes?" he demanded. A soft voice answered him.

"Your son is here, my lord prince."

Gimilzôr frowned. In his mind, for a moment, he had a vision of those grey eyes, trying to pry out his secrets for the benefit of his father´s enemies. A feeling that he had discarded a long time ago clenched his insides; he tried to dismiss it as a brief attack of nausea.

"I will not see him." he replied, standing up from his chair.

\----------

He did not stop for a moment on the threshold of the chambers. With a decided stride he passed between the guards, who stood back with a reverential bow, and ordered them to leave. The ivory table was in the usual state of disorder; he sought it with his glance, only to find the paper in the same place where he had left it the day before.

Frowning in anger, he picked it up for inspection. It was still unsigned.

"Where is the King?" he asked to a courtier who had arrived to receive him. The man lowered his head.

"In... in the gardens, my lord prince."

Gimilzôr took the paper with two fingers, and immediately headed towards that direction. The door of the terrace was obstructed by three other courtiers, who were carefully cleaning radishes and putting them in boxes. When they saw him looming over them, they were so startled that one of them dropped the armful of vegetables that he was carrying.

Without paying the slightest attention to his fumbling, the Prince walked among them. The King was at the left side of the garden, kneeling between two bushes. He had just cut an especially fine radish, and was in the process of cleaning it with his hand and showing it delightedly to a lady who had rolled up the sleeves of her dress to help him in his endeavours.

Her laughter was quenched as soon as she felt him approach.

"Prince Gimilzôr." she welcomed him with a bow.

"Leave."

In a distinctly reluctant manner, she bowed and left with a lingering look at both of them. The King looked warily at him.

"What do you want?"

Gimilzôr did not waste much time with greetings. He simply produced the paper, and showed it to him.

"You forgot to sign this."

The old man hesitated for a moment, then turned his attention back to his radish with an uneasy look that reminded of a young boy being scolded. For a while, he kept dusting it in silence, playing with the edges of Gimilzôr´s patience.

"I am sure that these radishes should leave you even a moment to sign an important document." his son continued in a forced light tone. "Accompany me now, please."

The King shook his head.

"No." he muttered, sullenly.

Gimilzôr took a sharp breath. He had no time for the old fool´s childishness.

"What do you mean, no?"

For a moment, he thought that Ar-Sakalthôr would refuse to answer. As he was already opening his mouth again, however, the king laid down his precious root with an expression of regret, and gave him a baleful look.

"I do not want to sign that document, and I will not." he spoke, defiantly. "I do not like its contents."

"My King, it is a needed manouevre. It will support our policies well, and bring us great aid in the future. In exchange for having our aid to secure his influence over a territory which is even smaller than Armenelos, we will have the key to the loyalty of the Merchant Princes and all the rich merchants of Númenor."

"To start with, she is three years old! Who knows if she is still... breastfeeding, or something of the sort? This is ridiculous!"

"The marriage will not take place until she is old enough."

"Oh, yes, once she has had the time to bed the whole of the male population of her accursed city!" Ar-Sakalthôr snorted. " _Child of the Mother_ ", the text says. Or you think, perchance, that I have forgotten how to read?"

Gimilzôr shook his head mechanically.

"The Goddess saved her life when she was born, and she was consecrated to her in exchange. If she does not receive her due, she will take it with her own hands." he explained. "But this does not matter to us."

"It matters to _me_!" The King´s voice raised to a shrill, complaining tone. "I care for my grandson and for my bloodline! I will not stand aside while this- this _dreadful_ alliance with an unholy, polluted kin takes place, or allow an overseas merchant to rule Númenor at will! Think of what your ancestors would have said!"

Gimilzôr put the paper down with a sharp noise.

"And what would you have me do?" he asked, raising his voice. "I am taking the appropriate steps to assure the survival of our kingdom. That - _bloodline_ of yours is hanging from a thread, and it is not a very reassuring one. As you very well know, my elder son has been corrupted into an Elf-friend by the Western snakes, and he will not have heirs!"

"And whose fault was that?"

For a moment, Gimilzôr stared at the King, livid. Then, he advanced on him, and saw a shadow of fear pass through the eyes of Ar-Sakalthor as he instinctively retreated.

"If _you_ had done your duty, I would not have needed to make all those decisions! If _you_ had ruled Númenor as her King, an inexperienced prince would never have been forced to carry the burden alone!" With the corner of his eye, he noticed a stir among the courtiers who were still at the terrace, barely fifty metres away from them, and made them a sharp signal to leave. Their prompt obedience seemed to bring even more uneasiness to the huddled figure of the King.

"And now, you _will_ sign this if you do not want your wretched life to become even more wretched!" Gimilzôr hissed menacingly. Ar-Sakalthôr lowered his eyes, and stared hard at his thin, trembling fingers.

When the Prince turned away in the direction of the porch, he followed him meekly, and sat down on the low table dusting his hands in a thorough, methodical way.

"Here." Gimilzôr muttered, handing him the quill. Ar-Sakalthôr took it and stared at the text with a forlorn expression.

When he made the signature, his hand was trembling. Gimilzôr sought his features in shock, and realised that the old man was crying. He gave a sigh.

It was pitiful. No king should act like this.

"You treat me like I was the most despicable of mortals." Ar-Sakalthôr sobbed. "You hate me, but once I took care of you. You- you have forgotten how I took care of you. You were such a small child once... not taller than my knee..."

Gimilzôr turned away in dismay. In spite of his endeavours to harden himself and expel from his mind the notion that this pitiful being was his _father_ , he still felt his heart sink, torn between pity and revulsion.

It should not be like this. He should not be forced to bring misery upon this man who had enough misfortunes with his own troubled mind, not even for the sake of Númenor. But so he had felt about his wife and son, and in the end those thoughts would always bring him nowhere.

_**He** _ _was the King._

As he left the chambers, he found himself face to face with the lady who had been digging radishes with Ar-Sakalthôr. She made an attempt to leave his presence with nothing but a mumbled greeting, but he stopped in his tracks and forced her to do the same.

"Look after him." he ordered.

Furrowing her brow in barely concealed disgust, she bowed and took her leave.

\----------

The summer of that year, right after taking his grandfather´s place at the wedding feast of Númendil and Emeldir, Inziladûn asked his father for leave to visit his wife´s kin in Sorontil. When Zarhil knew of this plan, her morose mood vanished completely, giving way to a frenzied excitement. She appointed herself his guide, and forgot their differences for a while in her determination to show him the land of her birth to the last piece of rock.

Forrostar was not the fairest land in Númenor, or the most pleasant to live in. For the most part it was covered in mountains of bare rock, where only goats and their shepherds dared to venture. Stormclouds gathered on their peaks, covering the skies in a melancholy mass of grey for the whole month of their stay. A humid cold seeped through the very bones of the visitors even in the warmest guest chambers of the windswept house of the lord of Sorontil, and yet Inziladûn found that he liked this house, and the land, well enough.

Zarhil had said once that the Northern breeze came directly from the Sea to the peak of Sorontil, clean and new, and unspoiled by the lazy warmth of the air of Mittalmar. He had to agree with her in that there was a strange invigorating quality to it, a purity which did not reach other parts of Númenor that lay enclosed between walls and shady corridors.

But, what was even more precious to him was that this land meant freedom. Zakarbal, his wife´s brother, paid no mind to Gimilzôr´s protocol in his father´s lands, and both Inziladûn and Zarhil were allowed to ride alone wherever they wished, undisturbed by the peasants who stared at them in faint curiosity before going back to their business. It meant lack, almost abhorrence of ostentation – a family of seamen and warriors, the lords of Sorontil had always prided themselves in keeping a modest household. All the magnificence they allowed around themselves had been bestowed upon their Armenelos residence, out of policy and constraint, and even this had been financed by the Númenorean associates of the Merchant Princes, in whose debt Zarhâd, to his great displeasure, stayed even now.

Zarhil made good of her promise to show him everything there was to see in the land. It clearly thrilled her to visit her family´s house and to ride the open plains again, and Inziladûn was glad for her sake. Still, the day when she brought him to the Sea, he noticed that her mood shifted again; still exuberant when she talked or exchanged jokes with him, whenever she thought that he was not looking she fell into a mournful silence.

And Zarhil was not the only one to feel the need to protect her troubled thoughts behind a veil of quiet. In spite of the welcome changes that this trip meant for him, Inziladûn soon found that he was still haunted by the shadows of Armenelos.

It was a feeling whose nature he could not exactly discern, but since that fatidical morning in which Magon, prince of Gadir, had stood in his way in that corridor, each whisper of a courtier, each visitor to his father´s audience chamber, each look in the Prince´s eyes had felt like another thread of a shape-shifting, endlessly stretching web of conspiracy. Sometimes, he was afraid that the suspicious disease that ran in his family´s veins could be preying on him. He had escaped the gloom of the Palace, but the irrational feeling of danger had still followed him here.

One day, they found themselves in a beach of the Eastern shore, riding back from one of their excursions. Inziladûn had confessed his great desire to visit the tower of Meneldur, where a famous ancestor of his had been imprisoned, and Zarhil had obliged.

The tower was now abandoned, not even used as a lighthouse anymore. Taking advantage of this circumstance, they had been able to climb to the uppermost room, where Tar-Meneldur had studied the stars and Alissha´s life had waned in an agony of decades. He had felt a great sadness pervade his spirit, as he sat behind the window where the woman who had been meant to be the first queen of the Faithful had seen the same stormy sea, day after day to the hour of her death, and wondered darkly if his own mission would not end in a similar fate of loneliness.

Zarhil had also been quiet for the most part, not doing much to dispel the clouds of his demeanour. The trip back home was done in silence, each lost in their own world of thoughts, until he was taken out of his musings by an exclamation.

"Look! Look, Inziladûn, over there! Ships!"

Curious, he followed his wife´s finger, which was pointing at the horizon. Built with the exquisite craft of the Númenóreans, the machines of war seemed to fly over the foam with spread sails, like gigantic gulls of a beautiful yet terrible elegance.

"Warships!" she cried, excited, dismounting and heading towards the shore to have a better look at them. Inziladûn, admired in spite of himself, followed her example. "One, two, three! They are heading South for Sor!"

"Two warships." he corrected mechanically. Zarhil stared at him in surprise. "One merchant ship." _Clients of the Merchant Princes,_ a darker voice murmured within his mind.

"By the Lady of the Seas, you have the eyesight of an Elvish fiend!" she cursed, clearly aggravated at a landsman besting her in her own domain. He did not answer, busy with overtaking her and reaching the breaking of the waves.

And then, he saw it. Riding the foam that spread like a white mantle over his feet, a single, silver gleam. Out of an immediate instinct, he crouched and caught it in his hand, before the water pulled it away from him.

_A leaf_. A small, perfect leaf of _malinornë_ that he could cup in the palm of his hand.

"Inziladûn! What are you doing?"

For a moment, he tried to search in his mind for a way to explain this. Had the current brought it all the way from Andúnië, round the cape and without being washed ashore until it reached him? But then, his faint attempts at logic were overtaken by the unleashed storm of visions, like a wave was overtaken by another as they broke upon the shore. He saw the pale figures of Númendil and Emeldir, sitting under the malinornë trees, and there was a shadow upon them.

He saw Artanis, watching them sadly from a distance. The shadow was upon her, too, and upon her father and family.

He saw Eärendur, standing in waiting at the Palace courtyard. He appraised the shadow in front of him and faced it without a struggle, with the resigned firmness that Inziladûn had always seen upon his face to that day.

_And the shadow engulfed him._

"Inziladûn... what is the matter?"

Pulled back into reality by the insistence of Zarhil´s voice, the first emotion that coursed through Inziladûn´s mind was danger. At once, he hid the leaf and tried to bring back an appearance of normalcy to his features, tense with fear.

"I am fine." he assured her, swallowing deeply. For a second, her look felt doubtful and penetrating, but he looked away and headed back towards his horse in determined strides. "We must hurry, or night will take us in our way."

Only after a while, he heard the soft, crushing sound of the sand giving way under puzzled steps.


	19. Departure

**A.N:** Thanks a bunch to the people who replied to my latest chapter – you gave me heart for a bit longer. ;)

**Interlude - Departure**

"In the name of the King, do not resist!"

He did not move. The soldiers had made a circle around him, but they did not advance, as if held back by an invisible wall.

Away in the distance, he heard his grandson´s voice. He was telling them not to harm his wife and Artanis -lonely, unfortunate Artanis, how she would miss the golden trees-, but he knew that they had been told not to touch any of them. It had been like this the other time, before any of them had been born.

Now, they would be brought to the Palace. There would be a trial. And later in the night they would be taken East, to the shores where his own life had begun in exile so many years ago. The proud Merchant Princes, newly allied to the Royal family, would suffer no opposition either in trade or politics.

With the first indice of anxiety that he had felt since they broke into his house, Eärendur wondered for a moment how Inziladûn would face these new circumstances. For years he had taken great pains to impress the nature of their respective duties in the mind of his young, royal kinsman; asked, entreated him to never betray himself no matter what happened to them in the future. Their own roles in this drama were secondary, fleeting lives of dedicated service and constant incertitude until their time came. And he thought that Inziladûn had understood – yes, he told himself with a small allowance to pride, he had taught him well.

His role was now over.

_A young child sat upon the ground, listening to the distant cry of the seagulls._

" _Mama, are those the birds from home?"_

_His mother shook her head in sadness._

" _No, my dear. We have no home."_

The first cry of surprise came from behind his back. Another followed almost at once, and suddenly he saw nothing but confused faces, the clank of metal and a shuffle of feet running towards him. Cold hands grabbed at his arm, trying to pull him up, to force him to stay with harsh threats, but this, he thought with a smile in triumph, was the only thing that the proud King of Men would never be able to command.

Eärendur closed his eyes, willing back to his mind the memories of the first time that he had leaned on the prow of a ship to see the majestic cliffs of the Bay of Andúnië. Once again, he sought the secrets embedded on the grey lines with the enthusiasm of a child, until he found the city of his ancestors, carved in stone and cradled by rock like the nest of an eagle.

_We have a home, mother,_ he muttered. Far in the distance, someone shook his body as if it was a broken puppet. _And no one will take it away from me again._

A light shone in the West, white and radiant like foam under the sunlight. With a last, pitying glance at his loved ones, Eärendur rose, and began the travel.

\----------

" _Father..."_

His voice broke. A weak grin flickered for a second over the emaciated face, before it contracted in a renewed spasm of pain. The cold hand gripped his harshly, drawing nails against his flesh.

Gimilzôr did not feel the pain.

"Father, listen to me." he repeated, this time in a firmer, more composed tone. Still, somehow, the treacherous anguish managed to seep through, and a part of his soul cringed at its haunting sound. _When had he come to this humiliating weakness?_ "Númenor is safe now. The rule of the Western lords has ended. The merchants of Sor and Gadir are our friends, and we will keep things under control. One day, a new ruling family will be born from this alliance." He paused to swallow the knot in his throat. "Inziladûn´s line is broken. We have saved Númenor, Father, do you see? We did what had to be done. You - understand it now, at last, do you not, Father?"

Ar-Sakalthôr´s huge, wide eyes stared at him in incomprehension. Little by little, the pull began to subside, and a feverish hand tried to find its way to clean the sweat from his brow. Gimilzôr sought for a handkerchief and wiped it himself, while his father watched his every movement in some tension and a slight wariness.

Suddenly, the old King broke into a short, raspy laugh.

"Who are you?" he said. Gimilzôr took a long breath. He was delirious.

"I am your son." he said. "Your son, Gimilzôr."

Ar-Sakalthôr shook his head, but did not answer or show any further signal of recognition.

"I have no sons." he muttered a long while later, as he studied the glazed tiles of the wall in quiet disdain.

\----------


	20. Interlude III: City of Water

The young woman bowed thrice, touching the stone floor with her forehead. With a well-measured gesture, she made the holy sign, muttered a litany of sacred names, and stood up to leave.

As she walked the length of the cave, her ears caught the faint sounds of rustling robes, first far away in the distance, then closing upon her, unseen. A tremulous breath escaped her lungs, and she paused for a moment to listen. They were there, her sisters- she could feel their presence following her movements from the shadows, with gazes of silent mourning for their youngest.

And still, she was not allowed to linger for any longer. Outside, they were waiting for her to emerge, for the brutal sunrays to tear her away from the Mother´s darkness. She lowered her head, blinking the dazzled tears away while she took the stairs, until her eyes became able to find the way back to the boat. Two women, dressed in red and gold, knelt reverently to pick up her robes.

Melkyelid sat upon the back of the ship, slowly relaxing as the familiar roll of small waves rocked her body. At both sides of the channel, citizens paused their daily dealings to lean over the bronze railings, and take a curious glimpse of the young bride who would cross the ocean to dwell on their ancient homeland, where the sun drowned every night and ships who dared to wander beyond the last limits were swallowed by angry waves. Two children pointed at her excitedly, whispering between themselves.

The city of Gadir, ancient harbour of Pelargir, was never fairer than at this hour of the morning. It was the hour of the humid radiance, which spread through the urban forest of white and painted towers that crowned the tall houses. It was the hour when the first light touched the streets of polished pavements that the people of Gadir preferred to the corridors of their own houses, and the quiet groves where an awed girl had once caught glimpses of a blue, flawless plain between gigantic trunks of oceanic trees, always spreading their knotted, muscled arms to catch her in a deadly embrace of petrified wood.

This same light was now dancing in brilliant spots upon the calm waters, where an older girl had thrown her most precious jewels to pray for the love of an ungrateful young man. And as the boat sailed across the wide mouth where the channel died into the sea, with the Númenorean harbour upon her left and the golden sands of the cove beach upon her right, it also touched the wilder waters where she had bathed her naked body after her service to the Goddess.

Melkyelid went pale, as those distant memories mingled with another, more recent ones. A young woman cradled her shaking body with her own hands, lying upon the cold floor at the Lady´s feet

" _Almighty Mother, you who rule the might of Sea, you who look with pleasure upon the joining of bodies in the dark hours of the night, you whom I have always served, and honoured, and held holier than the mother who bore me, take pity on your daughter in her great distress. Throw your mantle of shadows upon her, shut her in your dark womb, protect her from the cruel sun of tomorrow. Accept her eternal service, use her body to subdue men to your power, fill her mind with pious thoughts, until the day that she is lost and taken by the Doom of Men."_

Melkyelid stood up from her seat. The heavy silver necklace that she was wearing made a clinking noise, and she remembered her father´s hands, turning it thrice around her neck.

" _You are my pride. Even as you sit in your brilliant palace at the end of the world, never forget your blood."_

Her mother, patiently tying the seventy thin braids of her hair with silver bands.

" _You are my pride. Even as you watch the sun die in front of your eyes, never forget your blood."_

Her elder sisters, who stole looks of mingled jealousy and admiration while they painted her fingernails with diminute figures of purple, and arranged the folds of blue silk spun in silver of her dress.

" _You are our pride. Even as you bear long-lived children with the eyes of gods, never forget your blood."_

The young woman saw the last arms of sand pass her by, the last rocks, the last collectors of the purple shell. Her fingernails dug into her palms, so harshly that they almost drew blood.

_... The benign smile of cold ivory, last teaching of her Mother to her daughter..._

The boat slowed its course, then bumped to a halt. In front of it stood the ship.

Melkyelid swallowed the ache and smiled a regal smile, serene and achingly beautiful like the goddess of ivory. Her city lay behind her back, with her towers and her gigantic trees, and her polished streets, and her shadowed temples.

_And in front of the ship, stretching in front of the dead child´s eyes, the blue, flawless plain._

"Let us board before the wind changes." she ordered in a clear voice.


	21. The Bride of Gadir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   The title of this chapter was taken literally from an old Spanish historical novel- take it as an homage. And thanks to all people who are following this!

**Note:** The title of this chapter was taken literally from an old Spanish historical novel- take it as an homage. And thanks to all people who are following this!

**The Bride of Gadir**

The blue June day was magnificent at its zenith, like a gem of perfect rays. The sky was reflected over the smooth surface of the waters, and the people who crowded the docks sought in vain for a gust of sea breeze that would ease the weight of the burning sun. Everything was quiet, with the crushing calm of sacred ceremonies.

For the space of that one day, the small city of the Old Harbour had been revived from its long agony. Once again, visitors crowded the streets, vendors shouted their merchandise, and old women who leaned over their windows in mystified surprise were asked for the shortest way to the port that had once been the greatest in the world of Men, a word of fear for Middle Earth and a jewel of Númenor. The intense life of a royal seaport erupted in streets of old stone and neglected statues, where people exchanged rumours, confronted their divided opinions about the Newcomer and devised strategies to have a good view of the royal train.

As any pedantic library rat, or proud heir of an ancient family would tell anybody who wanted to hear, Rómenna had been the key of Númenorean expansion for so many centuries that they were now impossible to count. The ships that would found Gadir had set off from their docks, and silver had been poured into their hands in an unextinguishable torrent. Kings had embellished their streets, built magnificent public edifices and temples, and some ventured that even Gadir´s beauty had been nothing but a pale copy of its mother back then.

The beginning of the decadence had been Ar-Adunakhôr´s accession to the throne. The ambitious king had judged it insufficient for his daring projects, too small and old and full of memories. Not further than a few miles south, he had ordered the building of the Arms of the Giant, the weapon of Melkor fully equipped for both trade and war. The harbour of Sor was larger than three cities put together, and in the shadow of the new growing monster, Rómenna could do nothing but wither.

During the reign of Ar-Zimrathôn, to add insult to injury, the King had ordered the Western exiles to dwell in settlements near to the city, effectively crushing whatever remained of their ancient splendour. That impious rabble had suffocated them, forcing them to build walls and fences against their possible rebellions and attracting the King´s ill-will over their region. In the families of Rómenna, visceral hatred for those usurpers was transmitted from one generation to another as part of a sombre inheritance, the last remains of their ancient pride.

This year, however, many events had taken place to shake them away from this long lethargy of resentment. King Ar-Gimilzôr, in an unexpected decision that had provoked outrage and set many tongues wagging in the whole of Númenor, had chosen a bride from Gadir for his younger son, the daughter of the most powerful merchant of the colony. It was the first time that a woman of Middle-Earth married into an important family in Númenor –the King´s own family!-, and the whole Court had been set in motion to welcome her to the Island.

The first idea had, of course, been to have her arrive to Sor and welcome her in the King´s harbour. But when most preparatives were already completed, the priests had suddenly interposed their veto. If the Middle-Earth ship bringing the new princess to Númenor entered Sor, it would be a bad omen of conquest. Discontent was already seeping through the populace about what they viewed as a humiliating capitulation to the Merchant Princes, and her arrival could not take the appearance of a triumphal entrance in the greatest symbol of the King´s dominion over the world. Moreover, she was consecrated to the Goddess, whose dark feminine essence the Lord of Light despised.

And thus, the inhabitants of Rómenna had woken up one morning to find whole armies of servants of the King at their gates. For the space of a month the city had been cleaned and repaired, fences had been built throughout the harbour, houses had been restored to their former magnificence to accomodate great nobles, and the Western exiles who lived in the city as servants, artisans or vendors had been expelled once again. Everything that the Royal House of Armenelos had not done in a hundred years had been completed in a few days.

Most citizens, in spite of all, had not allowed themselves to be blinded by this new turn in their fortunes. Their city had once been great, and in front of those new visitors - both the humble and the illustrious-, they were determined to behave as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The lady whose family had been noble at the time of the Colonisers wore the finery of her great-grandmother, and stared with condescendence at the heavy golden veils of the Court ladies. The head of the City Council did not humble himself offering his thanks to the governor of Sor for having been chosen – echoes of a time where such a choice would have been obvious. Parents scolded their children for staring at the folk of Armenelos, and any circle of old wives felt entitled to criticise, in patronising tones, this new bride whom they fancied to be a distant descendant of one of the city´s wayward families, who had once left in search of a better fortune.

Still, the day when the royal train finally made it to the harbour, there were few who withstood the temptation of fighting for a vantage point from which they could at least catch a glimpse of the favourites of Melkor. None of the citizens had seen this new King before, except for the odd merchant who had travelled to Armenelos to conclude some business on the day of the Prince´s wedding. As he walked towards the docks surrounded by his train and guards, many women and more than one man stood on their toes, and let go of a sigh of wonder.

Now, _that_ was a king. Some of the elderly people of the city still remembered having travelled to neighbouring Sor to see Ar-Sakalthôr more than seventy years ago, when he travelled there to consecrate the temple of Melkor in the first year of his reign, and his long, pale face, lost glances and rebellious hair had been found wanting. Ar-Gimilzôr, however, even at a distance, carried his royal dignity with all the required competence. His diadem, golden and set with rubies seemed to have been wrought with the sole purpose of ornating his proud frown. The purple cloak was folded with elegance, and the curls of long black hair fell down his back exactly as the most exigent of his examiners would have wished. All in all, he walked with assurance, seeing all but unmoved by everything.

Behind him, someone whispered, came his elder son, the Prince of the West. The looks of reverential approval that his father had earned turned to surprise, and then shock as he came in full sight. If he had not carried the purple, no one would have hesitated to believe that he was a lowly servant allowed into the King´s train by underhanded means. His mane, curly like that of his father, was as rebellious as that of his grandfather, and, horror of horrors! he had not shaved the hair in his face. He walked briskly, with none of the dignity that was required even of the humblest stablehand of the Palace, and his eyes, unpleasant and grey like those of the impious exiles, stared left and right with an unseeming curiosity.

At his side was his wife, plain and grey-haired like the wife of a barbarian. The daughter of a maid of the hairdresser of a Palace lady-in-waiting whispered to her friends that she had heard there was no love between them, that he was exasperated at her unability to give him heirs, and that she spent more than half of her years in her family´s house in the cold North.

Last, three steps behind them, the other son of the King walked at the side of the governor of Sor. His features mirrored those of his father, but coloured by the charm of a youth that refused to fade, and which the artful braiding of his hair with gold threads contributed to enhance. He wore a tunic of green and gold; the approval of the crowd was immediate.

As he made a move of his hand to elegantly brush a spot of dust from the hem of his cloak, a woman whispered in her husband´s ear that Prince Gimilkhâd would make a better King than his brother. The respectable shoemaker looked left and right and shook his head, vaguely afraid.

Because of the unfavourable currents, or a general error of calculation of the heralds, the ship was suffering a delay. The city authorities soon had to order a red awning to be brought for the royal family, and some murmurations could be heard from the rowdier part of the multitude as the sunrays started to grow stronger. More than one person, bedazzled by the light or simply with a penchant for jokes, announced the silhouette of the ship in the horizon, and caused the heavy calm to stir briefly before it died again in disappointment.

Still, the white sails did not appear unless well past noontide. They came floating over the calm surface of the Sea, agonisingly slow like a sleeping whale. A low buzz of whispers arose again, as the people forgot about the heat and the long hours of waiting to press against each other in their attempts to see.

The ship had ben made with the peculiar craft of the people of Gadir. Lower and wider than the Númenorean falcons of war, its curved hull had ample holds for merchandise, and the gentle, rocking movement it made suggested the graceful swing of a woman´s hips. On its prow, which did not end in the piercing spur typical of the ships of Sor, a tremulous, glittering spot attracted many curious glances, until it sailed close enough to the harbour for the people to distinguish the shape of a standing woman who looked into the distance.

The looks of curiosity soon turned to incredulity, and the intensity of the whispers increased. Rumour spread like fire that this woman was the merchant´s daughter, the barbarian who had the effrontery to show her face to the assembled crowd before her wedding, the sacrilegious priestess who did not mind the eyes of strangers! Some people turned back to steal a look at Ar-Gimilzôr, to see his reaction, but the King´s features showed none.

It was already under a slightly hostile climate that the ship, amid some yells of the sailors who manouevred to throw and tie the ropes, slowed and froze to a halt, and a gangway made of wooden planks was solidly fastened for the princess´s descent. And still, when she appeared at the top of the ramp, the scathing comments died in a renewed bout of astonishment.

The bride from Gadir stepped down, ignoring the changing emotions of the crowd. For a moment, she stopped to dart a few looks at the unfamiliar surroundings, and her throat bulged with a quick swallow. Her honey-coloured eyes blinked once, and many an angry woman had to elbow her enthralled husband while cursing this foreign priestess who was not a pale-faced girl with a deep glance.

There were many legends about the fair queens of old, and rumour had it that the late Princess Inzilbêth, the mother of the heir to the throne, had been the greatest beauty of Númenor before the Doom took her at a young age. But none, among the thousands of people who gathered in that old harbour, had ever seen such a sight in their lifetimes.

This bride was dressed with a magnificence that put every single courtier to shame. Even the King himself was overshadowed by the splendour of her extravagant attire of floating blue silks, covered in embroideries of the fine silver that had earned her city´s prosperity. Heavy necklaces hung from her neck, diamond and emerald bracelets covered her arms in an impossible profusion, and even her hair, long and of a rich brown colour, was almost buried under ringlets of silver and gems. No woman in Númenor had ever dressed like this – no, not even the goddess who stood in the darkness of her cave at the Forbidden Bay.

And yet, the beauty of the woman under the display of riches was well worthy, maybe even complementary of them in an odd way. She was very young –not yet twenty- with freshly formed features that were already tempered by a soft elegance. Beneath her robes, each of her small, balancing steps formed sensuous lines that brought a knot to many throats. And her skin –admirable thing!-, like yet another exotic jewel that had been wrapped over her limbs, was a softly golden colour, as if the sunrays, instead of burning it, had instead chosen to lend to it something of their own quality.

Someone could be heard explaining, to whoever cared to listen, that hers was the skin colour of the people who lived in the land where the sun was born. Those with an education smirked at his ignorance, but none looked aside.

As she arrived to the King´s proximity, her chin was still high. The onslaught of murmurs of disapproval was renewed, this time coming from the people of the royal train. Something in her eyes, in the way in which she walked suggested effrontery to the grave folk of Armenelos.

She seemed to have the presence of mind to notice, however, and lowered her eyes until she was close enough to kneel and bow in front of Ar-Gimilzôr. Gimilkhâd eyed her in bedazzlement, while a curious interest danced in his brother´s sharp eyes.

"Rise, Melkyelid." the King said, offering her his hand in a show of goodwill. She took it and stood up, just in time to find coarse fingers holding a red veil in front of her nose.

Realisation dawned upon the newcomer´s features, and she bowed in apology to the tall, forbidding figure of her sister-in-law. When she threw the red folds over her face, several muffled sighs of disappointment could be heard in their proximity.

Once that she had convenably covered herself, she turned again towards Ar-Gimilzôr.

"Protector and guardian of Númenor and its colonies." she began. Her voice came too loud, and coloured by the shadow of an accent, but it did not tremble. "Favourite of the Great God whose name I am not allowed to speak, ruler of Armenelos, receive this humble daughter of the city beyond the Sea in your sacred realm!"

For a moment, she raised her eyes again, and let them trail briefly over the royal persons. Gimilkhâd swallowed, visibly agitated at the blurred sight of her face. Inziladûn frowned, as if he had been assaulted by a sudden vision, but Ar-Gimilzôr merely nodded in approval.

"Come." he said. The members of the King´s train composed their robes amid the sound of swishing silks, and slowly set into motion behind Ar-Gimilzôr´s even steps.

Melkyelid stood there, frozen for a second of incertitude as she watched the complicated manouevre. Then, aware of the buzz that had been unleashed behind her back, she held the ends of the long veil with a determined grip, and fell into an empty space behind Gimilkhâd.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Her eyes were round and cautious, taking things in consideration with a sort of methodical slowness. Used to brief waits, to the intense moments and noisy chatter of a life of pleasure in Armenelos, this silent withdrawal into a world of her own could not help but make Gimilkhâd nervous. He turned aside from her, studied the mosaics and carpets of his own room; then turned back abruptly, ashamed at his own lack of majesty.

The young woman´s features, still brilliant from sweat, had only recently emerged from beneath the red folds of the veil. Now, a golden hand was trying to pull an element of her headdress back in place, with careful and precise movements that struck a quiet contrast with his wild behaviour.

As he stopped to look at her, she raised her head in answer. Both their glances clashed in the air, and he blinked, feeling explored – not _pierced_ , like whenever those terrible grey eyes saw through his elaborate masks and broke his strongest defenses, yet he had never allowed any man who drank with him or any woman who entered his bed to stare at him in the face.

And he had always hated silence.

Melkyelid breathed deeply, and her lips curved into a tentative smile. Gimilkhâd, whose mouth had already begun to open, felt a knot gather in his throat, and let it snap shut again.

Too late, he realised that she was seeing him gape at her. Furious, he clenched his fists, trying to regain his dignity while she watched.

"I thought a former priestess of Ashtarte-Uinen would not be so shy on her wedding night." he blurted out, somewhat vengefully. "You cannot be afraid, can you?"

The expected –relieving- onslaught did not come. Maybe, a part of him belatedly thought, he had not even expected it, not any more than he would have expected a precious statue in a courtyard to yell back at him.

She smoothed out the blue and silver fabric of her dress over her knees, until there wasn´t a single crease left in the pattern.

"Might a stranger speak freely?" she demanded.

Since the last lady-in-waiting had fled their presence, with hurried steps and a pleased blush upon her downcast face, it was the first time that she had spoken a word. In spite of himself, Gimilkhâd had grown fascinated with that alien accent of deeper and longer vowels, and the soft tone that she had quickly learned to employ when she realised that the ladies of Armenelos were shocked at the loudness in her voice. He nodded, a gesture which she answered with a small yet grave bow.

"It is... more than mere shyness, what brings me to study my battleground with such intent care." she said, looking into his eyes again. "You have asked if I am afraid; my answer is that I am. From my island city stretching along the coast of Middle-Earth, I alone have returned to the land of my ancestors. I have achieved a place of honour that my family would never have dared to envision through the long generations that lie between me and our noble founder, even though we have become rich and powerful. "Lowering her glance a little, she joined her hands over the curve of her stomach, as if she was suddenly feeling cold. "And now, here, the princess of a house of colonisers is nothing but a barbarian. The daughter of Magon of Gadir is the daughter of a merchant, and the priestess of the Great Goddess is a prostitute who should not be shy in her wedding night."

She made a long pause, but did not seem to care for the badly dissimulated shock in his eyes. He felt an urge to say something, but he could not figure what or how.

"This city is full of unkind eyes, tall buildings, and streets that I cannot tread." she continued, in an even lower tone. The statue was beginning to dissolve in a fragile, longing image of vulnerability. Gimilkhâd sat at her side, and all of a sudden nothing mattered anymore, only a desire to hold those delicate fingers and tell her that there was nothing to fear.

And yet, he still did not know what to say.

"I have heard that there is a... rare kind of beauty in your city." he began. His voice, hoarse at first in his clumsy attempts at kindness, became firmer when he saw a tentative light begin to shine in her features. "That there are places where you can see the Great Sea in front of you, and the barbarian coast behind."

"Oh, yes! Our island is a small world of many horizons." she nodded, happier at the remembrances. Her honey eyes became lost in the distance, as if they were seeing the familiar lines and colours of the land of her birth. "Ours is the mysterious blue line where no land is seen, the passage to another world that is but a myth to the tribes of barbarians that trade with us. Ours is the distant sight of mountains, behind the fog of the Eastern world. Ours is the red sunset where the sky seems to be filled with blood, the crown of ghostly rays behind a mass of grey clouds, and the spark of green that superstitious eyes seek whenever a spotless yellow sun drowns into the Sea under a clear sky. "He pressed her against him, seduced by the enthusiasm in her voice, and she briefly rested her head against his shoulder. She smelled strange. "And ours is the sunset behind the branches of giant foreign trees."

"You will also like Armenelos." he promised.

For a while, he sought for words to describe the splendours of his city as she had just done with hers. But the flattering descriptions of Court poets rung hollow in his mind, borrowed words in face of the real love that breathed her high-flowing, solemn foreign eloquence. He gave up.

_What could he know?_

Gimilkhâd had lived all his life in Armenelos, and prepared countless escapades to the best and worst quarters of the Three Hills to find the objects of his pleasures. He knew of the magnificence of its buildings, gardens, temples and palaces, which had furnished the luxuries that had become his life´s most pressing needs. Nowhere else, after all, could he have found such refinements, such fine garments, such beautiful women and good wine, and for all this he liked the King´s capital. But he had never _loved_ Armenelos, where the sombre corridors had once been a world of dread, and a Palace wing had always been closed to him.

For a moment, he imagined how it would be to be her, and went back to those nights of darkness when he fancied that the still unexplored galleries were a labyrinth that stretched infinitely in front of the awed child´s eyes, and his mad grandfather smiled at him from his throne. When he still didn´t have friends, or women, or anything who stood between him and the overwhelming presence of two dark eyes lit with a cruel hope, and two sea-grey eyes filled with contempt.

He looked at the woman who sat next to him, who studied the height of the ceilings with the careful mistrust of a barbarian or a child. And then, though he had never had a share in the perilous gift of the King´s line, he felt briefly as if a flash of insight had taken him.

_Would this quiet beauty reign one day in those corridors that she now feared? Would her voice be heard, louder than his, firmer in her intent?_

A feathery caress on his shoulder startled him out of those strange musings. He gazed at her, and she surprised his lips with a kiss.

For a moment, he stood there in shock. No woman had ever touched him first before, not even the boldest whores at the less reputable places he had visited. Then, however, as a pair of skilled hands touched and scratched their way down his back, he felt the beginnings of a fire burn and coil inside his chest, warmer than the others he had experienced.

Taken by the impulse, his own hands wandered towards her hair and neck, and he began to discard the precious silver ornaments, throwing them left and right. His own violence surprised him, and also the unexpected surge of wild relief when, at last, he saw them scattered upon the floor.

The naked goddess nodded gravely, stretching her golden limbs upon the covers.


	22. The Lady Melkyelid

_Inziladûn._

A fog wove its warm tendrils over his soul. He looked down, forcing his mind to surrender to the glimmering precipice that stretched in the dark. Fear seized him in its cold grip, but he had learned long ago that he was brave enough to surrender.

All their voices were there, floating in the air that rose slowly to meet his trembling face. The grave voice of a man, the concerned voice of a woman, a young lady who smiled and a pale young man who studied the lines of his countenance in quiet fascination.

_Inziladûn._

Even she was there, with her sad, beautiful smile. But unlike the others, she did not call him.

Inziladûn bit his lip, banishing the ghosts of the past from his mind. There were pressing issues at hand, reasons that had pushed him to contact the Exiles for the second time in the last three months – in spite of the danger.

With a firm gesture, he reached to the precipice, and took the light in his hands. Images of vast distances passed him by at a vertiginous speed, of hills and crops and temples, and a tall, magnificent city on the shores of the Great Sea. Crying seagulls settled upon a red tower with a quick flapping of wings. He steadied his grip.

_Zarhil´s time is over._ he said, searching for a point of support in the grey eyes of Valandil, which widened a bit before they were shadowed by a dark cloud. _I will not have heirs._

A heavy silence followed his words, as the Exiles pondered the disheartening news. Somewhere, a current of despair screamed briefly before it was subdued into the usual harmony of resignation.

_We must trust the will of Ilúvatar._

Inziladûn acquiesced.

_You feel no grief._

Surprised, the Prince of Númenor recognised the soft voice of Artanis. For the first time in years, her eyes pierced his light, and he remembered that they had been the colour of the sky on a foggy Andúnië dawn.

_Artanis..._ her father´s voice interrupted, but she did not back down.

_Inziladûn has a greater gift than any of us. We must trust his foresight, even if he does not trust it himself._

Shocked at the strange reasoning, Inziladûn tried to pull away from the link that joined his soul to the community of the Faithful. He needed to be himself again, to reflect on her words without other people´s thoughts brushing against his and gently mingling in a choir of whispering voices.

_You feel no grief._

As he returned to the –now so narrow, so excruciatingly narrow- confines of his own self, he saw his wife´s sour expression turn to glowering anger. A vase shattered against the floor in a thousand shards.

" _All those years for_ _ **this**_ _?For you to mutter empty words of comfort when I tell you I will never be able to bear your child?"_

" _It is not your fault, Zarhil."_

_Puzzlement gathered in his entrails, together with a weird feeling of inadequacy. It was as if – somehow, the news did not reach the sentient part of his soul. As if they were vain words, nothing more._

_For all those years, he had been waiting, hoping. Having faith, in spite of the quickly diminishing chances. His father had been no fool, even though he believed in oracles._

_Had his faith created such a gulf between him and reality, that now he was unable to accept it even as it was yelled to his face?He could not be angry. He could not feel despair._

_Maybe everything had been in vain all along - and maybe he had known._

Artanis´s faith still reached him, now similar to a faint echo in the distance. But, he wondered, could foresight work this way? Forbidding his heart to follow the logic of his brain? Maybe, what had happened to him in other ocassions could have been explained this way – that night when against his upbringing he chose to trust the Lord of Andünié and forsake his father´s gods-, but face to an inexorable law of Nature, the very thought seemed pretentious and empty.

_Only He who created Nature holds power over His creation._

More shaken than what he had felt back when Zarhil gave him the news, Inziladûn focused back on the palantír. They were all waiting for him, and their minds opened gladly to pull him in. No one questioned him.

_Inziladûn._

This presence was the most vague of all, with the ethereal quality of morning fog among trees; an Elf whose light had been dimmed by time and shadow. And yet, his voice was firm.

_Númendil._ he acknowledged him.

_My wife is expecting a child, and I feel that he will be male. I will glady give him to you._ the voice said.

_There are many ways to introduce a baby in the Palace unnoticed._ Valandil added in tacit agreement. _And there are also ways to feign a pregnancy._

Shocked, Inziladûn felt their sincerity reach him in waves. There was no suffering, no conflict, no more than a passing regret in the heart of Númendil and his family. They would surrender their homes, their freedom, their lives –their nieces, he remembered with some bitterness-, and even their yet unborn children in their quest for salvation.

He had been their friend and ally for many years now, and yet, at such moments he suddenly became aware of the width of the gulf that lay between them and him. Unlike them, he had never sacrificed everything. He could not wholly fathom the depths of devotion that lay behind their veiled glances. At those times, he felt ashamed – and afraid, knowing that one day he, like them, would have to face his destiny.

_I congratulate you warmly, Númendil. Your son will carry the line of the Lords of Andúnië in brighter times._

His words, at least, were received with due acceptance. Feeling his refusal, they did not insist, and soon afterwards he pulled away in silence.

That night, Inziladûn dreamed of a boy and a girl, holding each other´s hands as they ran to escape the might of the wave. Their hair was black, their eyes grey and full of terror, and they were both alike.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The King´s Festival was especially solemn that year, as whenever Númenor or its colonies were waging war on other peoples. In mid-winter, Armenelos had been mildly shaken when some ships bearing the King´s ensign had set for the colony of Gadir, with the mission of "mediating" in the uprising of a faction of citizens that had rebelled against Magon´s leadership and accused him of despotical ways. Contrary to the example of their metropolis, the people of Gadir, composed by a great majority of merchants, had always prized themselves for the relative equality of their social status. There had never been any great differences between the richest families, and an uncommon growth in the fortune of one was felt as a terrible insult by the others. Magon´s prosperity upon reaching the King´s ear had threatened them more than what any foreign foe ever could.

Still, Ar-Gimilzôr would never have been so careless as to send his ships to wage war on citizens. The raids of some Belfalas tribes were causing some ruckus in the trading posts of the colony, and under the grand pretext of fighting them he had declared the War Year. Thus, the altar where the flame of Melkor burned had been decorated with branches that smelled strongly of myrrh, and gold and purple offrands glistened upon the white flight of stairs. And, while the choir of priests sang the sacred litanies, the King performed the feat of sacrificing not two, but twelve black bulls and cows.

Inziladûn watched from a retired place, as always hiding his disgust at the spurts of blood under a seamless mask. He liked to believe that he had not needed Eärendur´s words to hate such a violent and dirty ceremony – deep inside his heart, even back when the lulling whispers of priests assaulted his ears like a continuous torrent, he had preferred to adopt Maharbal´s belief that purity could never come from uncleanliness and pestilence, or rejoice in it.

Next to him, Zarhil and Gimilkhâd followed the ceremony in religious silence. His brother, always devout, was forming a prayer with his lips, but Zarhil stood still in her place like a rock battered by the winds of Soronthil. The glow of the flames lighted her face in undulating patterns, bringing out the pallor in her features.

A powerful bellow echoed through the hall, momentarily smothering the litany of chants. Inziladûn saw the dying bull fall to its knees in agony, and his father´s hands smeared in blood. A shiver ran through his spine.

At a short distance, priests in white were already hauling the first victims to throw them into the fire. The sacred flames rose to give their flaring welcome to the carcasses, and then the fumes became darker. A deep stench filled his nostrils, almost causing him to grimace in repugnance.

_Elbereth,_ he muttered, remembering stories of how the Lady´s light had defeated this darkness when the world was new. But She was a pure thought of the One, not an imperfect soul where two kindreds battled each other continuously, locked in a prison of soiled flesh. And yet no, not even this - he was nothing but a human, the last fruit of a cursed lineage.

_And he could not save Númenor_.

As this morbid thought formed inside his mind, Inziladûn was shocked at himself. At once he turned back, trying to breathe clear air to purify his mind, but the pestilence had already impregnated everything. He coughed, unable to stop the dark flow of images. Everything that he had been unable to feel since Zarhil gave him the news assaulted him now with an unstoppable violence.

He imagined the black cloud spreading over cities, land and mountains, smothering everything under its suffocating stench. People fell to their knees with tortured gasps, unable to breathe, until a terrible yet beautiful wave restored their purity in death.

Shaken, and unable to think of the repercussions of his action, he turned away from the altar, and left the hall of sacrifices under Zarhil´s surprised look.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

As fresh air reached his nostrils again, Inziladûn felt the sickly visions start to dissolve, like a child´s nightmare under the comforting light of the day. And still, something lingered in spite of his relief, while the pestilence of burned flesh still adhered to his skin and robes. Nauseated, he took the direction of the gardens, swearing to himself that he would never hold a single sacrifice as King.

The royal backyard of the Temple, located behind the altar, was one of the most lovely places in Armenelos. Driven by that year´s unaccustomed heat, the orange trees had bloomed early, and their fragrant white flowers fell in clusters that floated upon the waters of its twelve running fountains.

Somewhere behind the bushes, the sound of a woman´s soft laughter reached Inziladûn. Suddenly aware that he was not alone, he washed his face with the sweet-smelling water and tried to regain his royal composure, banishing the last ghastly shreds from his mind.

The lady he had heard was sitting upon the blue glazed tiles of a fountain, together with seven companions. In their centre, protected from the sunrays by a heavy branch whose flowers fell upon the pages at intervals, the lady Melkyelid was reading aloud. Her hair, as was her custom, was braided into a complicated headdress with gold and red gems. The silk dress that she wore was also red and embroidered in gold, and even her lips were skillfully painted with tiny patterns of both colours.

Upon noticing his presence, she laid the book down, and signalled the other women to bow. In the middle of the minor ruckus that ensued, only she stayed in place with courteously downcast eyes.

"You will not like my smell." he told her, with studied lightheartedness. He had never felt comfortable around the daughter of Magon, in spite of her many fine qualities and her ability to give a good impression.

She merely smiled.

"Yet it is the smell of the Divinity." A divinity whose threshold she was forbidden to cross, but whose power any true daughter of Gadir would rever. Inziladûn had heard many times that the cult of Melkor had originally hailed from their Temple – and yet, he did not have any intention of talking about the dark god in this beautiful place.

To his relief, she did not make any reference to his presence in the gardens before the ceremony was over. If she found it odd, or if it confirmed the rumours she had heard about his impiety, she preferred to let it pass in silence.

"It is well that we have met here. "she said instead, standing up from her seat. "There is... one thing that I wanted to tell you, and I did not know if I would ever have the chance."

One of the women knelt to shake the petals off the folds of her dress, and she waited patiently for her to finish. Then, she gestured at them to stay back, and turned a beseeching look in Inziladûn´s direction.

"Would you walk with me?"

He nodded, more than slightly puzzled at the proposition. Since her arrival to Rómenna, there was no way to keep count of the pleasantries and formalities that they had exchanged, but they had never held a personal conversation.

For a while, they walked in silence through the carved paths and fountains. The vivid greens of the plants, the clear blue of the sky and the red in her dress were a welcome relief after the altar´s darkness, and he took every chance to bathe deeply in them.

Finally, she spoke again, carefully honing her Eastern eloquence.

"My heart was shaken when I laid eyes upon the illustrious lady Zarhil."

Inziladûn hid his shock. Even if Zarhil´s sourness had been apparent to an observing outsider, it was not this woman´s place to comment upon it. And since he had known her, Melkyelid had never done anything that it was not her place to do.

"What do you mean?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound neither accusing nor defensive.

His sister-in-law´s lips curved into a new smile, this time strangely close to a grin. Before he could wonder at her sudden change of attitude, however, she laid a careful hand upon his shoulder, and calmly broke her news.

"I think that the illustrious lady Zarhil is pregnant."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The hard, dark-grey eyes narrowed ominously.

" _Pregnant?"_

She pulled back from him, until her head almost collided with the opposite end of the covered carriage, and let go of a derisive laugh. Inziladûn nodded, unfazed.

"This is what she said."

"And you believed such a ludicrous story?"

"She said that she knew it as a woman. And then I remembered that it was two months ago when we last..."

Zarhil shook her head with violence, interrupting him.

"Nonsense! What... what can she possibly know about me? She was lying, lying like her whole breed!"

He crossed his arms over his knees, patiently. The carriage was crossing a street with irregular pavement, and both felt the wheels jump under their feet.

"And why would she?"

"Oh, who knows? Unlike her, _I_ do not claim to know other women´s inner secrets!" she replied, making huge gestures with both hands. "She is not a good woman. Maybe... maybe she wants to have a laugh at my expense. Or she does it to introduce further disension between us!"

_Even further?_ he thought, in somewhat bitter sarcasm.

"Since she came, her reputation has been spotless." he told Zarhil, in an attempt to quench her quickly growing rage. "The King is very fond of her, and my brother loves her dearly. I do not think there are any grounds to..."

"Your brother loves her dearly!" The woman´s grimace showed well enough what she thought of Gimilkhâd´s affections. " _A priestess of Ashtarte-Uinen is worth a hundred women_ "... is that what they say?"

"Enough, Zarhil!" Inziladûn grumbled, at last close to losing his patience as well. In this, at least, they were still partners, he thought: there never was a single time when one of them failed for long to rise to the other´s provocation. "The lady Melkyelid is not the subject of our discussion, but whether you are or not pregnant!"

" _Pregnant!"_ she cried. The carriage had slowed down; they were probably entering the Main Courtyard."Of course I am not pregnant! I told you that the time was over for me, do you remember? How do I need to say it in order for you to understand? _I do not bleed anymore!"_

The Prince swallowed. A belated awareness that this subject should have been calmly discussed instead of yelled, -and that it was somehow the fault of his earlier wording- assaulted his mind, but today´s aggressivity was becoming too much even for her usual standards of behaviour. She was positively seething, glancing left and right like a lion in a cage.

"Do pregnant women bleed?" he asked, forcing his voice to adopt a kinder tone.

Zarhil stood up, grabbing the velvet curtain with her strong fist.

"Will you never cease tormenting me, Inziladûn?"

Before his astonished eyes, she jumped. Outside, someone shouted in surprise. A horse neighed loudly as it was reined back by rigid, frightened hands, and the impulse of the sudden stop caused him to fall back on his seat.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

For more than a month, Inziladûn saw nothing of Zarhil. She withdrew to her chambers, forbidding him entrance, and he was left alone to wonder about the puzzling turns of events.

Returning to their conversation, and recalling the ferocious hurt in her eyes before the jump, he realised, with the clarity of belated awareness, that her unability to have children had haunted her too. He cursed himself for his blindness, he, the man who looked into the hearts of people and had failed to nail his wife´s elusive and shifting distress! But no matter how many times he tried to talk to her again, he was not allowed into her rooms.

At days, he kept helping the King with the affairs of governance, unable, as in a nightmare, to prevent the many grains of sand from escaping his grip. Ar-Gimilzôr controlled everything now, his allies were rich in Middle-Earth and strong in Sor. The exiles would not return to their homes; their lordship had been revoked and they lived as virtual prisoners of the Merchant Princes of Sor. Their harbours were exploited by the King, and by the most powerful merchants under royal leave. People from other parts of Númenor had been relocated to the West, and offered farms in the lands of Andustar, which had come to fall under the lordship of the Governor of the Forbidden Bay. In the South, Umbar had been recently fortified. And reigning supreme above all this Magon, the magnate of Gadir, restored as undisputable leader of the colony, furnished the royal house with enough riches to produce two hundred thousand suits of armour, a hundred thousand swords and a thousand warships at the slightest sign of war, controlled Sorian traffic and held most nobles of Númenor –even Zarhil´s father- in the list of his debitors.

At nights, weary and dispirited after endless ceremonies in caves and smoking altars –Ar-Gimilzôr, in his old age, had become more religious than ever-, he lay in his bed and immediately fell asleep. But his eyes, closed to the waking world, were opened to a legion of eerie and persistent visions whose meaning evaded him. He saw the Wave, and the foul smoke, and in the centre of everything, the Twins. They held hands and stared at him, with grey eyes full of a quiet insistence.

One of those days, as he returned to his chambers in the evening, he was startled to find a hunched figure lying upon his bed. With a strange mixture of caution and urgence, he approached the dark silhouette, and two fearful grey eyes rose to meet his own.

"Zarhil?" he whispered, astonished. He tried to kneel at her side, but she shook her head and clumsily sat down on her own. Her movements ressembled those of a drunk man, but it was her pallor what alarmed him. "Zarhil! What is the matter?"

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again as if she did not know how to start. A faint blush began to spread across her cheeks.

"I was – I am pregnant." she stammered, in an almost inaudible whisper.

He did not understand the words.

"What?"

"I am pregnant!" she repeated, mustering back some of her old irritation. "Have you gone deaf? Or you do not speak the language of the Men of Númenor? Is it so... so difficult to...?"

Her voice trailed away, and soon died down in a confused stammer. Swallowing deeply, he embraced her, forcing the news to sink inside his brain.

Her limbs were shaking, in constant but irregular spasms. At first, he thought that she had to be crying, but then realised that it was a silent laughter. As if it had been nothing but a funny tale, he recalled everything from the start: her announcement, Artanis´s faith in him –his own despair, Melkyelid´s perceptive words, and their terrible argument the day of the King´s festival. And then he remembered his puzzling unability to fathom the idea, punctuated by the visions of the Twins.

As a long, overdue explosion of relief, he felt the pull of laughter gathering also in his lungs. Everything, at last, was as it should be. The paradox had been solved; visions and prophecies would follow their normal course. His destiny was set, once again, in front of him like a beacon of light.

"I was a fool." she muttered. He nodded, falling upon the bed together with her. Everything seemed so comical now!

"We were fools, both of us. Fools, and unable to look in front of our noses!" And they laughed in unison, unable to care for this either, drunk with excitement and wonder.

That night, they slept beneath his covers, he pressing his face against her womb in an attempt to hear the beating of the heart –hearts!- of the forming bodies. But in his dreams, Death and Smoke still reigned, and one of the twins was covered by the dark fumes while the other raised a shrill scream.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_...the threat has arisen again..._

Outside, the night´s starry mantle shone dimly over the domes and towers of the Three Hill City. The gleam in Her face, veiled by a halo of clouds, lighted the steps of the women who perused the streets at midnight like ghosts of powdered cheeks. For an instant, he heard the distant yelp of a beaten dog– bad omen!-, but then there was nothing but the faint sound of the priest´s footsteps as he bowed and left him at the threshold of the Fire.

Careful not to stir the silence, he advanced towards the altar, muttering the prayers that would clean his soul from impurity. When he reached the while flight of stairs, he fell to his knees, prosternating himself thrice in front of the multifacetious, all-consuming giver of all power, the essence of life to which the God himself returned year after year until both were but one.

"The King of fire, of life and death, the son of Eru, Sovereign of Armenelos, will hear his favourite child." a voice chanted next to his ear in a monotonous whisper. A powerful smell assaulted his nostrils, and humbly, he extended his hands to receive the bronze pot where the sacred herb was slowly dissolving in fumes.

"Bestower of answers..." he muttered. The High Priest rose in a rustle of white robes, and left him alone.

Giving himself a moment to experience the sickness that invaded his very being, he forced his mind to master his body, and plunged inside. At once, the insidious smoke blocked the air away from his lungs, burning his face and bringing him close to the edge. The violent struggles of the deathbed ensued.

A while later, finally, his willpower waned, and he felt his soul start to leave his body as peacefully as if the horror of the Doom held nothing but a gentle sweetness. But before he could surrender to this sensation, in came the full might of his intruder – the Self that penetrated him like the edge of a brilliant sword once that his own self, the self of Ar-Gimilzôr, King of Númenor, Favourite of Melkor and Protector of the Colonies, had crumbled to dust.

_The threat has arisen like a canker, both in the East and in the West. From the blood of the crushed serpent, evil will grow anew. The fallen lineage will give birth twice in a year, and weave the threads of our ruin._

Warm limbs writhed upon a cold floor. Each of the details of the dome´s paintings shone like a thousand diamonds under the sun.

_A King´s weakness brings many evils to his people. Back then, you were weak. You were selfish. And you were criminal._

He shuddered.

_He was my son,_ he tried to hiss, but the overwhelming presence of the Other smothered this absurd, pretentious individuality. "He" - was nothing. He had no power, he had no lineage, he had no sons, it tore, mockingly, at his insides. He was but an imperfect mirror of the only true King who had existed since the Beginningborn to lend him a face and a voice in the mortal world for a while.He was a part of Númenor itself, and against His will and the Sacred Island´s prosperity there was no affection that was not criminal.

_Not even I, powerful among the powerful, can escape Fate, and you are but a mortal. You may disguise your ineptitude behind a thousand clever schemes, but in the end, the sacrifice that you refused to make will come back to you. And fail! the serpent will grow to fill you with horror, until the whole of Númenor is taken by her deadly embrace and you are left, bodiless spirit, alone to mourn your cowardice._

The voice became silent, and the presence abandoned him with a mighty spasm. Shaken, Gimilzôr struggled to find a point of support, grabbing at the point of a marble step. He was trembling, and the sweat that soaked his face was cold and sticky.

At his feet, the bronze pot had been knocked over with violence during the ritual. The still steaming herbs lay scattered around the floor, and his left hand and arm were covered in angry red burns. He stared at it in morbid fascination for a while, then quickly hid it under the folds of his purple cloak.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Meanwhile, sitting next to the gentle fumes of a perfume burner, a woman raised her eyes to look at the stars. Her glance trailed from one to the other, following their lines –not with the abandon of a dreamer, but the practiced ease of an expert in their science who dutifully mumbled their names as she counted them, in a strange mixture of absortion and respect.

Suddenly, her forehead was creased by a slight frown. Something was out of place in the constellation of the Virgin, a glimmer... a shooting star?

Little by little, under her silent vigilance, the glimmer grew, until it became a constant glow that mirrored the golden hue of her face. For an instant –had it been a vision?- her placid features were lighted by a feral joy, but it died in a flicker, carefully hiding her secret from the prying eyes of the night.

A gust of cold wind dishevelled her hair. Burying her chin under her blue velvet mantle, she huddled closer to the fire, and caressed her stomach with a small smile.


	23. The Twins

I agree that this chapter might seem like a big WTF to many. My excuse is: it will not be the last.

**The Twins**

"Push harder!"

_"Queen of the Seas_

_Mother of All..."_

"Here it is! I... I have it!"

" _Guide of ships_

_Mother of All"_

Inziladûn heard a sharp growl, among hurried whispers of midwives and the sound of stirred water. Then, the silence.

" _Lady of Shadows_

_Mother of All_

_Fairer than silver..."_

Even the litany died after a while, with the faded voice of a shaking woman. Zarhil, strong as she was, had been terrified to give birth unless the attributes of Uinen were sung by her bedside, but now he did not hear her asking the singer to resume her task. Far in the distance, someone was wailing.

Inziladûn laid his forehead against the cool wood, impatient and worried. A strange feeling of urgence was on him, and he wondered if this was what a man was supposed to feel when his wife was away from his reach, writhing to give birth to his children.

_Or was it something else?_

The wail became sharper, turning into a scream that pierced even the thick closed doors. Inziladûn went pale, trying to remember where he had heard this sound before. It was high and shrill, and it filled him with an instinctive dread.

_Death and smoke... The boy´s eyes widened in fear, as the fumes closed around him. His sister ran towards him. She opened her mouth to let go of an ear-shattering scream..._

Seized by panic, Inziladûn knocked at the door. Nobody answered.

"Zarhil!" he cried. He heard a faint stir.

Feeling his determination grow, he pushed harder and harder, until it eventually gave way with a sharp click. A pungent smell of sweat and medicine, mingled with the insidious sweetness of blood assaulted his nostrils. Pieces of white linen were strewn across the floor at his feet, but no one came to greet him.

Suddenly, Inziladûn remembered that empty corridor. His mother´s small and white body, lying on her bed under a violet garment. He recoiled, and yet now as well as back then, the need to know proved greater than the fear.

As his steps led him to the Lie-In Chamber, the wails were already becoming deafening. There was a baby somewhere, of this there was no doubt –his baby, he told himself, torn between conflicting hypotheses. But he heard no other voice, no other wail, no other woman telling Zarhil to push harder until the second child was born. And Zarhil was lying on the bed, her eyes staring into nowhere.

"Zarhil!" he cried, rushing towards her. _They have killed her and fled,_ was the first idea that formed in his mind when he found no one at her bedside. Trembling, he took her callused hand into his – and felt a slow, steady pulse bring back life to his deathly pallor.

"Zarhil." he repeated several times, as if the very name had the power to dispel the shadows. She stirred a little, mumbling something incoherent. "Zarhil."

Now that his most pressing concern had been answered, the awareness of what surrounded him returned little by little, as if he was waking up from a dream. The sheet where he was sitting was smeared with dark bloodstains. Around him, the room lay in an abandoned disorder of dirty water tubs, towels and ceramic jars, except for a lone woman who cradled a wailing creature in her arms.

As his attention turned sharply towards her, he saw her flinch, and pull back until her back was pressed against the stone wall. She could not be older than twenty-five, with a pale round face, and dark eyes widened in fear. A book of litanies was lying on the floor at her feet.

"What happened?" he asked her. She shook her head, pressing the crying child against her chest. His impatience grew.

"Speak! Where are the others?"

"It was not me." she muttered. The baby´s noise smothered the sound of her words, and she tried again, louder. "It was not me! I did not... help the Lady give birth. I... I was here to read..."

The panic, momentarily quenched as he saw that Zarhil was alive began to grow in his chest anew. He wanted to grab that woman and search her glance for the truth of what she had seen, of what had frightened her so deeply.

But then, she was holding his child in her hands like there was no other protection left to her.

"Come forth." he tried again, in a kinder, reassuring voice. "I will not harm you."

She made a nervous gesture of denial –obviously, she did not believe him. Little by little, she seemed to be reaching some kind of determination, and struggled to stand up. Eyeing him warily all the time, she tiptoed towards an ivory cradle that stood around three metres away from Zarhil´s bed. Inziladûn´s attention shifted towards it, and he saw that a wrapped bundle was lying on top of the purple covers.

His sense of foreboding increased.

The young woman took the crying child, and carefully laid it next to the bundle. As if taken by a powerful spell, the wailing immediately ceased.

"This is your daughter."she said. Then, before he could react, she made a quick bow and ran past the door, raising her long silk sleeves with trembling hands.

Inziladûn swallowed deeply, but did not follow her. Instead of this, he knelt next to the cradle, and picked up the bundle to unwrap it with a heavy heart. The baby –the girl- started wailing anew, the same, broken-hearted sound of the twin of her dreams.

His son was dead.

o-o-o-o-o-o

It was useless to attempt a pursuit, even an investigation of those women´s whereabouts. A peek at the next room showed Inziladûn the existence of another door, which they had no doubt used before when they fled. And there were so many enigmas, so many questions floating over the silent emptiness of the room. How had it happened? Had it been one of them, several, or all? Had they been paid?

There was only one person in Númenor who would inspire them with the sacrilegious audacity of killing a royal prince. One, who would not suffer him to have male heirs. The King´s bloodied hands at the sacrificial altar came back to his mind, and before he could even feel pain, he felt sick.

Zarhil´s eyes opened soon afterwards. At first, she began to move restlessly in her bed, muttering incoherences and fragments of litanies – _had she been drugged?_ Then, she saw him, and immediately asked for her two children.

In other circumstances, Inziladûn would have carefully reflected on what should be said to a sick woman and what should better be left in silence. But the baby´s corpse, pale and swollen, was still in front of his eyes.

"He is dead", he said simply, in a toneless voice. Zarhil´s eyes widened, and she let go of a strangled cry.

"Give him to me!" she demanded, tearing at the sheets in an attempt to lift her body to a sitting position. Alarmed, Inziladûn ran towards her, just in time to prevent her from falling off the bed.

"Zarhil..." he began, holding her down. She tried to struggle, but she was too weak, and her well-honed muscles were of as little help to her as her desperation. Her head thrashed from left to right, like an injured lion in a wall painting. "Zarhil, he died in childbirth..."

"I heard him!" she yelled. "I heard him cry! He was alive!"

He swallowed, livid. Only the sense of purpose needed to calm her down could prevent him from letting go of his grief and nausea. His mouth opened several times, trying to find words to explain the horror of what had happened –until a terrible certitude assailed him, and put an end to his frenzied attempts.

_She should not know._ Nobody should know about this, ever.

"Yes. He was alive." he nodded, with studied calm. "But he was the... last to be drawn out from you. The birth was difficult, and he was suffocated. Soon after he was born, he died."

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

"It was said that you were too old to withstand a double birth. "he lied. "We should count ourselves as lucky because you survived."

His very innards trembled at the hurt in her expression.

"It was my... my _fault_ , then? This is what you mean?"

"No!" he cried. She seemed to have gone limp under his restraining efforts, so he moved aside and let her go. Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not move. "It was nobody´s fault. You did what you could, they did what they could. Our son did what he could. But he could not survive." _Lies, all of them, lies. A monster´s deadly poison lived in the Palace._ Shaking, he held on to the only thing that was true, and uncontrovertible."It was not your fault, Zarhil."

The woman shook his head. Suddenly, in an unexpected movement, she grabbed his sleeve with a white-knuckled grip, and pulled him towards her. Afraid that despair would bring her to violence, he tried to hold her again, but to his surprise she merely fell in his arms. Her body shook with sobs.

Inziladûn did not know anymore if he was comforting her or himself, but cradling this woman of rough skin and dishevelled grey hair made the most immediate knot in his throat untangle. After a long while, he pried away from her, and picked the living baby from the cradle.

She had begun to wail again, thrashing with her hands and feet as if she was trying to escape from something that his eyes could not see. Darkly, he wondered if she would ever be free from the evil whose shadow had already touched her.

Zarhil was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and he sat next to her, laying their daughter in her arms. At first, there was nothing but a distant awareness, slowly building in her eyes as she looked at her. After a while, however, fear came to her eyes, and with it the first spark of love for the child that had been about to die. She extended a tentative finger towards her.

"Feed her." he whispered in her ear. A shaken hope lighted her face for a moment at the proposition, but it soon disappeared.

"It is not my place. "She grimaced bitterly. "And I - I probably do not have milk anymore."

_You were too old to withstand a double birth._

He cursed at himself.

"Nobody cares for that. Feed her." he said, in a stronger tone. "See! She wants you to feed her. She is your daughter."

Tentatively, Zarhil manouevred her in what she thought to be the right position. The baby´s face was red from her ininterrupted crying, and yet she writhed and tried to twist backwards from her grip. Zarhil´s hands shook in renewed terror.

"I will drop her. She will die, too."

"She will not." Taken by a strong determination, he took the child in his own arms while she clumsily bared her breast. In such an awkward moment, he felt glad that they were alone.

At last, the child was ready to be laid again on her mother´s lap. Zarhil watched him do it in quiet fascination, and only when he tugged at her sleeve she realised that she had to lift her in her arms. The process of adjustement was slow, but finally the baby could find the way to her first source of food.

The woman´s expectation was tense, and painful. It felt as if everything in her world, her pain, her exhaustion, and even her grief for her dead child, had been reduced for a moment to this only object of her care and anxiety – the fragile child´s elusive face and a pale breast.

Then, the wailing fell into silence. To Inziladûn´s marvel, and as if she had always known what she had to do, the baby pressed her mouth against her mother, and began to suck.

A smile broke upon Zarhil´s face.

o-o-o-o-o-o

_We must trust the will of Ilúvatar._

He was aware that the easiest thing would be to lose faith. To turn his back on the one who had not wished or had not been able to prevent it from happening.

And still, deep inside his soul, he knew that this would be nothing but a foolish simplification. It was the immediate, beastly, naked logic of any of the thousands who sacrified to Melkor and Uinen. To give in order to receive. To receive in order to give. Divine figures built by men and for men, with the only mission of fulfilling their desires.

His friends, the Exiles, had taught him to recognise the true gods by their names and attributes. For long, Inziladûn had listened to their teachings, but though he held every single one of their words in high honour, there had always been a doubt that he had kept to himself.

For him, -and in this he had also clashed with Maharbal- the true gods did not answer to the vulgar requests of Men. They were the creatures of his vision, sitting on their thrones of light while their glances encompassed the whole world. The imperfect soul of Man, bereaved of the inmortal brilliance of the fëar of Elves, could not reach their heights unless it could be possible to purify oneself so completely that all the shameful human thoughts and urges would fall to one´s feet like a discarded garment. The anguish, the longing that he felt were the curse of his Elven blood, but his human heritage was too corrupted.

Eärendur, back when he still lived, and Valandil, had reluctantly agreed with this. They had added that not even all Elves could reach the purity of the Valar anymore, and that many had lived -and still lived- in Middle-Earth as exiles. The Valar, after all, were also creatures like them, and they had their limits. But - they had added- Ilúvatar was Father of All, who covered everything, and there was no place that he could not reach, or voice that he could not hear.

For a time, Inziladûn´s skepticism had held this belief at arm´s length. It was not that he thought that Ilúvatar would be unable to hear him – Ilúvatar could not be _unable_ to do anything – but his awakened disgust for the vulgar materialism of the false religion had made him recoil from the idea of such a relationship of giving and asking with the Creator of the World. How could Ilúvatar accept a cow in exchange of bringing someone luck in a naval expedition without destroying the very concept of what He was supposed to be? How could He let a man believe that he did not depend on his own actions, but on an invisible providence that could be paid in gold? Would such a conception not destroy whatever good was left in this world, a good that He himself had created?

And yet, this view, and he had to admit it with a renewed sense of shame, was not what had guided his thoughts and actions for all his life. Man was weak, and the common sense of youth hard to keep when facing the perils of the adult world. The sincere beliefs of the Western line – beliefs that had kept them alive, but theirs were not the same fights as his- had crept into his heart, and he had come to relate things with the divine providence that he had once despised. After all, wasn´t the Wave dream a proof of its existence? Would they be fighting to save a sinking world if not for His mercy? And to save Númenor, Ilúvatar had to save him first. His reign would bring a change to the World of Men; he had been chosen for this since his birth granted him both the Sceptre and the ability to find the truth.

Alas! he had failed to see in time how this belief would weaken him. Instead of fighting, he had simply accepted, feigned, and waited. He would be given the means, the Sceptre, the heir that he needed, he would triumph no matter what his father or his allies did. And with an exalted, confident heart he had become unworthy of his mission, allowed the servants of Melkor to weave their insidious nets around his future reign, and now, terrible wake-up call, the last and most sacrilegious of all crimes had taken place in front of his nose.

_It was his fault, and no one else´s._ The death of this unfortunate child with no name would even be a small price to pay for the realisation that he had to fight or perish. That in this world of murders and strife, in this world where his own father had his son strangled in his mother´s womb for the sake of his policies, things would never come, without pain and sacrifice, to lay themselves upon his outstretched hand.

He could hate Ilúvatar. But in the end, he had to be brave and hate himself.

Could it be said, he wondered, that it was already too late? Were their hopes meant to be quenched by this terrible blow? His heart twisted in his entrails, remembering his beloved mother´s suffering, and the sacrifice of their kin. _They_ had understood well enough, and in spite of their beliefs, never lowered their guard. Would all their struggles be for nothing?

_There have been three ruling Queens in Númenor before._ He had thought that once in the first years of their marriage, flippantly, because with all those years ahead of him and the arrogance of youth he had not thought there would be a real need. But now, they came back at him. For he would never have sons, and only his daughter had been considered harmless enough to live.

This, if nothing else, showed that his father –for the first time, he felt nauseated at the title- was not posessed by a mindless evil, but filled with a cunning purpose. In this decadent Númenor, the great Ancalimë was seen as little more than a legend, and the last woman who had claimed a right to the Sceptre had been abandoned, by all but a few, to a terrible fate. Custom had become stronger than the ancient laws that Aldarion established before the decline, and nobody would fail to find ludicrous and intolerable that a woman, who had been banned from all public offices except priesthood, could rule the Island as Queen. The God King was male; no female could be his reflection.

Inziladûn swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of helpless tenderness as he lay eyes upon his daughter. For days and nights she had been crying without stop, unable to find rest even in dreams, until he had the occurrence of showing her Inzilbêth´s jewel. The baby had stared at it, mesmerised, and immediately held two enticed little hands towards the shiny thing. Somewhat worried, Inziladûn had finally allowed her to have it, checking that it had no cutting ends and was too big for her to swallow. She had calmed down then, to his surprise, sucking at the jewel with her toothless mouth. And when those grey eyes, wide and serene, had been lifted towards him for the first time, he had realised with a start that they were the eyes of his mother.

How could she, this baby, have the strength to fight the Merchant Princes, the false gods and the zealous evil of her own family? How could she, like the unfortunate Alissha, be thrown into the middle of a cruel war between kinsmen, and prevail? Inzilbêth, who had always smiled, who had always been strong for her son, had perished in one of those dark halls. Would this child, who had already seen death with her own eyes, have to fight those shadows one day?

_She will not,_ he thought, feeling a fierce determination fill him with a new strength. Because when she grew up, this tainted world would not exist anymore. He was still there and he would bring the change to Númenor, no matter the pain and no matter the cost. Not even if he died in the attempt would he try to flee his fate or lament it.

One day, his daughter would be the fair Queen of a peaceful land, beacon of light for all kindreds, where the ancient arts would recover their ancient splendour under the guidance of the Immortals and nobody would try to take what was hers by violence.

Suddenly, he felt as if the purpose that he had lacked until today had come crashing on him at last.

"My lord, it is the hour."

Inziladûn forced himself to abandon his musings, and gave a brief nod to the Second Royal Nurse, who held the child in her arms. Careful not to wake her, he pried the jewel away from his daughter´s fingers.

"Let us enter, then."

He was ready.

o-o-o-o-o-o

When they entered, the King was already sitting upon his throne. At his left and right, the Palace Head Priest of Melkor – Inziladûn´s old teacher Hannon-, the Keeper of the Chapel of Ashtarte-Uinen and the Seer waited, in perfect ceremonial gravity. No one else had been summoned: as the child had been born female, it had been ruled that the ceremony should be a private one, far from the indiscreet glances of strangers.

In perfect calm, Inziladûn took the child from the woman´s arms, and knelt to wait for the summons. As he heard his name being called, he stood up with downcast eyes, and handed the sleeping bundle to Hannon.

The priest made no comment. Softly chanting a prayer, he unwrapped the baby until she was fully naked, then took her by both hands and skillfully held her over the flames of the sacred fire. This woke her up at once, and soon her scared wails were hurting the ears of everyone in the room.

Nobody moved.

Next, it was the Keeper who took hold of her. Accompanied by the repetitive words of a litany, he submerged her in the Queen´s holy water. Her cries were choked and resumed several times, until Inziladûn began to fear that she would drown. He had to do great efforts not to interrupt the ceremony.

Finally, she was given to the Seer, who had already inhaled those vapours that, according to the late Eärendur, increased the natural gift of foresight of Elros´s line even as they drowned its truth under a stream of false hallucinations. The man, a prematurely aging creature with a pale face and bags under his eyes, stared in many directions with a haunted look. His hands were shaking.

"There is a woman... no! A goddess, standing upon the white peak of a mountain. "he muttered, in a hoarse voice that did not seem to belong in his mouth and that brought a shiver to Inziladûn´s spine. The King and the priests listened to him with reverence. "Her hair is black, like the wings of a raven. She is fairer than silver, and ivory, and pearls." _That accursed litany, again._ "She looks into the horizon. She looks at the sea. She..."

Suddenly, the man was taken by violent convulsions. He stumbled, and fell, but did not cry as the cold floor struck his left shoulder. The others watched him in silence, calmly waiting for him to stand up and resume his prophecy.

But he shook his head, refusing to speak.

"I can see no further. Everything is dark." he muttered. From the corner of his eye, Inziladûn saw Ar-Gimilzôr frown, but it did not last more than a second.

"Praised be the gods of Númenor." he said. The others answered in unison, and he nodded. "You may leave. Inziladûn - stay, and bring me the child."

At those casual words his son froze, in spite of all his previous resolutions. _The moment had come._ The time to give a step forwards, raise his glance – and meet the man who had killed his son face to face.

To his somewhat irrational shock, Gimilzôr did not look any different from the man he remembered since his childhood. His face was still the perfect mask of royalty, with lips pursed in a firm line, a high, slightly pointed chin and carefully arranged dark curls. His expresionless black eyes took a warmer tinge as he laid them on the baby, who was still bellowing her heart out.

Inziladûn tried to focus in calming her down, muttering words and cradling her in his arms. The nausea he thought he had mastered was coming back in a rush. He frantically wondered if it showed.

"Does she usually cry so much?" the King asked.

"Yes. "Inziladûn replied without thinking. "She... has good lungs."

Ar-Gimilzôr extended his arms to receive the child. In spite of his revulsion, Inziladûn was forced to surrender her to him, but the King merely stared at her with a fond attention.

"She is a beautiful and healthy child. You are to be congratulated, Inziladûn. Have you already thought of a name for her?"

The Prince nodded mechanically. The feeling that he had experienced when he had first seen her calm down and stare at him, chewing at Inzilbêth´s jewel grew in his mind until it took a definite shape.

_Míriel._

"Zimraphel. Her name will be Zimraphel."

Ar-Gimilzôr nodded in approval.

"An appropriate name. For she will be the fair jewel of our house, the first woman to have been born to the lineage of Ar-Adunakhôr."

Even though he had to raise his voice to be heard above the ruckus caused by the baby, he still kept giving the same studied inflection to each and every one of his words. Fascinated by it, Inziladûn had the sudden crazy notion that nothing of this had ever happened, that the King was nothing but a caring grandfather who was seeing his granddaughter for the first time. A part of him refused to believe that this nauseating normalcy could be feigned, that such an everyday conversation could hide a murder, and a growing feud.

_Could it be true?_ Could his father be such a monster?

_...Hail the Father who sacrificed his son..._

An old religious text crept into a corner of his brain, clear and insidious. The expression that his features took should have alerted Gimilzôr of the fact that something was amiss, because he handed Míriel back to him with a frown.

"You do not look well." he stated. Inziladûn made a brief attempt at protesting, but it died in his mouth before it could acquire any coherence. "About what happened to the other baby... it was a tragedy. Our family is grieving with you."

Inziladûn could do nothing but nod this time. Míriel, who had calmed down a little upon finding herself back in his arms, writhed back and buried her face in his sleeve. The resulting silence was positively deafening.

"He was to be the heir to the throne of Númenor. As such, he will be buried with the Kings in the caves of the Meneltarma, and a full month of mourning will be decreed."

A vision of the swollen corpse of his son came to the Prince´s mind. For a moment, he wondered how he would look after he was dissecated and embalmed, and covered in finely sculpted plates of gold to live a life of eternity.

The idea disgusted him. That a child who had not been allowed five minutes of life would be made to endure centuries of preserved sleep, that someone who had _been_ so little would last so much – there was a kind of horror in it, but still not as much as the look of sympathy in the King´s eyes.

He would do this to show the people of Númenor that his elder son´s lineage was cursed, and quench his remorse at the same time. Again, as always, the remarkable ability to accomodate everything to his policies– everything, except the existence of this grey-eyed stranger who had sworn that he would stop the evil that was spreading through Númenor.

Again, Inziladûn´s confidence grew, but this time out of a terrible feeling of dissociation. He bowed to the man who sat upon the throne.

_Hail the Father who sacrificed his son..._

_He,_ not his unfortunate child, was the son who should have been sacrificed. Inziladûn did not know when Gimilzôr had seen this for the first time, if it had been back when he was born, or that other day –so vivid in his memory- when they were talking in the Princess´s gardens, and he had suddenly seen the horrible change in the eyes of a father with whom he had been having his first enjoyable conversation. Yes, he thought, it should have been that day, the last time that he had seen any love in Gimilzôr´s eyes, little before his brother had been conceived. And though back then he had not understood, and felt hurt, now it was as clear to him as the gleaming blue crystal of the Elven stone in his pocket.

Gimilzôr had known. With the foresight of their race, he had seen that his son would one day despise the world that he and his ancestors had made, and that he would be summoned to destroy the last stone of the tainted edifice built by their hands. He was trapped in darkness, cursed to defend it until his death, while the child with penetrating eyes who innocently feared his cold glance would one day bring light and purity to their world.

_They were born enemies._ And now he knew, too.

"I thank you for yor generosity, my King, but I respectfully decline. "he said, formally. "It might not be advisable for the people of Númenor to learn about a weakness in our lineage."

If Ar-Gimilzôr was surprised at his words, he did not show any sign of it. He merely nodded.

"Your counsel is sound. It will be done as you request."

And that was all. As soon as he had pronounced those words, he made the customary gesture of dismissal, and Inziladûn found himself bowing in reverence to the throne and walking out of the hall. Outside, the Second Royal Nurse was waiting; he took the baby –who had fallen asleep again-, and handed it to her.

That night, for the first time in a week, he felt calmer. His head was clear, the customary nightmares did not assault him in his sleep, and to his surprise, he did not even resent the King for the role he had to play.

\----


	24. Rise of the Golden Star

In his life, there had been so many gifts that he had wasted in foolishness. Wasted, misapplied, or –as it had happened with his intelligence- cultivated for the wrong reasons. He remembered that eerie night in the Elvish city, when all the purposes in his life had been reduced to seeing the sea-grey eyes widen in recognition and fear. How he had been read – and how wouldn´t he-, and his most shameful desires used, to make him betray what he should have held dear.

It could be said that she had been the one who had saved his soul from a fate of perpetual escaping, of laughter that rung false, of empty words and the slow, insidious final corruption. Saved him from his old nightmare, only to throw him into a long and elaborate dream of her own making. She – nothing but a three year old girl when he had first heard about her, a young thing of nineteen when they married, though he still hadn´t guessed the true age of her soul beneath the slight, measured smiles. _The barbarian,_ as the Court had nicknamed her in derision before they also fell under her spell.

And yes, a barbarian she was indeed. A strange creature who burned perfume, prayed quietly to the Goddess while they embraced at night, and read her fate in the stars. An enigma for him, as she walked with hips that moved with a daring, sensuous cadence that belied the mild look in her eyes. Day by day, year by year, she had persuaded him to let her share his troubles, personal and political, and often offered him words of wise counsel, but the naive and the irrational had never faded from the core of her heart.

_Do you know what my name means?_ That night she had smiled in childish joy, pressing her brilliant cheek against his. _It means "Bearer of the King."_

At first, he had refused to listen. He had been angry, and self-righteous. But, through the years, even this had become another of the golden nets in which the lovely barbarian had ensnared him.

_Treason?_ Her ringing laugh, so quiet when she was in front of strangers. _Why treason? Can it be treason, if it is what the King wants?_

And that other night, nine months ago, Gimilkhâd remembered the soft poison that oozed from the shadows of the Palace´s halls. The tension, cut here and there by the edge of a black knife in the eyes of an onlooker, who immediately lowered them with fright and fled in a rustle of silk robes. His father, his brother, and the dead baby that lay between them like a silent scream.

When he arrived to his chambers, trying to banish remembrances from his mind, she had been there, quietly waiting for him to arrive. Her dress had been a flowing green silk; she had perfumed her hair as if she was performing in a ceremony.

" _I wish to be with you tonight."_

" _I am tired."_

" _No."_ A look of determination crossed her soft brown eyes, and she pointed at the window with the unquestionable conviction of children and people who talked with the gods. _"Tonight is the night."_

She had made him surrender to her fantastical prophecies, back then. And now, lying in bed like a triumphant queen with a gleaming forehead, she acknowledged him with a smile of joy.

"He has come." she said simply.

He was sprawled upon her lap, his cheek resting against the curve of his mother´s stomach. His tiny eyes were wide open, already endeavouring to explore his surroundings. The colour of his skin was his mother´s rare golden, and for a moment he had the mad hallucination that the whole baby was a sceptre that she held in her hands.

_He has come._

Filled with an almost religious awe, he sat down at her side, and extended a finger towards the baby. It trembled a little, and he irreflexively cursed between his teeth for showing this weakness.

_It was a baby. Nothing more. His baby, his son... the third heir to the Sceptre._

"Isn´t he magnificent?" she muttered. Gimilkâd had never heard such a fanatical adoration in her voice before, not even in the endearments that she used to whisper in his ears. "Radiant, like the golden star that watched over his birth. No – like the Sun itself, like the three jewels in the Great God´s crown!"

Gimilkhâd drew closer to the baby, who seemed to realise for the first time that he was there. He blinked reflexively – and suddenly, his father felt the irrational euphoria of Melkyelid tighten around his throat like a knot.

_Could it really be true?_

Everything, he fancied in the aftermath of his last struggles to escape the pull of the divine enthusiasm, could be as easy, as beautiful as an old legend if he believed in it. His own birth – _unlucky, unauspicious_ , the second serpent that all their ancestors had avoided like a dark curse-, his mother´s rejection –daughter of traitors!-, his brother´s contempt, and even his father´s smothering love. His wedding to the golden barbarian goddess, who bore her fate in her name as she did in her quiet insistence upon the will of the gods.

He could have been born for this. For this –to be the father of the King who would save his lineage from his brother´s impious snares. He would have a mission, and Melkyelid, the priestess of the Holy Mother, would have been the one to guide him through the steps.

Still overwhelmed, he picked up his son, feeling his smooth skin, his arms, his legs, the tuft of dark hair upon the golden head. The baby uttered an irritated yelp, in protest for the intrusion, and began to kick at him. Melkyelid´s smile widened in amusement.

"He already has a character." Her expression became dreamy, lost in the distance. "One day he will be a great warrior, the terror of the enemies of Númenor..."

Gimilkhâd nodded, unable to let go of the child as if he had been plunged into a trance. The perfection of it all bewildered him, and he felt as if he was standing in reverence upon the altar of the Divine King. He muttered a prayer of heartfelt thanks to Melkor.

_Never to feel lost anymore..._

Tears welled in his eyes, the first time that he had cried since the day of the red flowers.

_King of Light, Lord of the Armies. O Radiant, King of Armenelos._

Out of an impulse, his hand trailed towards the pendant that hung hidden upon his neck, to produce a ring of gold and rubies. And then, full of a fervour that he did not himself understand, he took the object of his imperfect childhood desires, the price of his treason and folly, and reverently laid it at the feet of his newborn son.


	25. Three-way Destiny

**Three-Way Destiny**

**(I)**

The hall was silent. In the midst of its empty greatness she sat embracing her knees, a child surrounded by raging battles of stone. With grey, empty eyes she followed the sculpted movements, the joy and the grief of faces that had been frozen forever while they died, while they killed, while they celebrated their greatest victory.

Her forehead creased in a frown, as if she was listening for their ghostly cries in the deep darkness. The old nurse suppressed an involuntary shiver, and stepped forwards until she was at the little girl´s side.

"What are you doing, my lady?" she asked. The Princess did not move. Her features were pale, like another of those statues whose brightly-painted eyes were like unsettling beacons against the white marble of their faces.

For a moment of crazy hallucination, the woman felt as if the hall of Ar-Adunakhôr´s battle reliefs was the only true home of this silent girl. The lack of contrast was seamless, as she sat quietly, calmly, cradled by the silence of the statues.

Then, however, the thought passed, and the furtive shiver came back once again. That girl... _that princess..._ no, there was no way to know how those things could affect her unfortunate soul.

Resolutely, she stepped in front of her.

"My lady." she said. Zimraphel´s eyes seemed to pass through her, and this unsettled her even further. She laid a hand over the tiny shoulder.

"My lady Zimraphel, you know that you are not allowed outside your chambers! You- may hurt yourself." she added in a whispered tone, swallowing deeply.

The Princess blinked. Then, as if they had just been sitting together for a while, she wrinkled her nose and gave her an inquiring look.

"Who is she?" she asked. Somewhat relieved, and used to her charge´s changes of mood, the old lady studied the relief in front of her.

It depicted a beautiful, raven-haired woman, raising her eyes to the sky while she was dragged across the floor by two soldiers. Her robes were painted in vivid tones of violet, striking a contrast with the subdued golden and ochre of the rest of the figures.

The nurse gave a slow nod.

"This is Alissha the Traitor."

She did not plan to add more, but Zimraphel began to pull at her sleeve with a methodical insistence.

"And what did she do?"

After a while, she was forced to surrender with a sigh.

"She tried to claim the Sceptre, though she was a woman and an Elf-friend. Ar-Adunakhôr and the Great God Melkor defeated her, and she was punished for her impudence." She took a sharp breath. "But you are too young yet to hear such stories."

"Did she die?" the girl asked still, with that kind of consuming absortion that seemed unable to see or hear anything else. The old nurse stared at her in shock.

"Yes. She died." she muttered, in a voice that was almost too low for herself to hear. Then, with a renewed feeling of urgence, she stood up and beckoned to her. "Come. We must leave now."

The Princess looked away, back to her original indifference.

"If the Second Royal Nurse learns that you have been here, you will be punished."

The threat was ignored. Which was not really surprising, because that girl was never punished. Everybody was overwhelmed by pity as they gazed upon those eyes, huge and stirring yet cursed with the shadow of an invisible illness.

"The Princess Zarhil will come to visit soon." she tried again. In spite of her mother´s deep devotion towards her, Zimraphel did not even blink.

Exasperated, the old woman grabbed at the girl´s hand, and forced her to stand up. Her fingers felt cold, and humid from the stone floor.

"Let us go." she ordered. The Princess followed her with small steps, but as they crossed the Western gates of the hall, the nurse saw her turn back to gaze at the distant violet spot one more time.

**(II)**

The lines of his hands were starting to dim, blurred by the waning light. Above his head, flocks of seagulls filled the skies with their piercing cries, and he knew that in the West the sun was already sinking under the waves. He remembered the times he had seen it under the guise of a ball of burning fire, magnificent and red before the final plunge.

In this city, the sun was different, a white explosion of light that blinded the eyes as it rose triumphantly from behind the towers. The reflection of its rays gave a strange, metallic quality to the sea of the merchants, that somehow felt harsh, vivifying; unwelcome.

Back in Andúnië, his family had said that with the passing of years he was growing closer to the Elf than to the Man that they all had in their blood. _Númendil, the Half-Elf,_ they called him in jest, smiling in indulgence as he grew absorbed by the slightest details of the shifting world around him. Life had always had a different quality for them than for him. Everything that happened was slower, blunter, less immediate - and sometimes he had felt like the paths he was treading were different from theirs altogether.

When they were exiled without trial, and imprisoned in this harbour of merchants, his wife had thought that their activity and turmoils would affect him most of all. But then, she had been the one who broke down first, sobbing with longing for their quiet twilight world, their gardens on the nest of the mountain and the love of their kin. Eärendur had preferred to lay down his old life rather than being exiled twice; as for the whereabouts of his parents and his sister, the Sorian merchants would not tell. He had comforted her the best that he could, telling her that they had been allowed to keep each other, but in truth he felt the pulls of reality with a strange, distant quality that he could not himself explain.

It was as if he had fallen into a long sleep, like some animals did when winter robbed them of food and warmth. From his terrace, he silently watched the comings and goings of loud-voiced men with colourful robes, the shipping of soldiers in warships headed for Middle-Earth and the evolutions of the crying gulls, and yet nothing of this affected him, like the mad dance of visions in his night dreams. The echoes of loving voices did not fade from his mind; he knew that they would meet again.

Far in the distance, he heard the noise of birds, but not gulls this time. The sound made him glad, for he loved those small, dark sterlings that curled under the cornice of the towers at this time of the year. They were like him; dwellers of the aerial realm, banished from the hostile comings and goings of the streets that lay under their feet.

In a month, those birds would be gone in search of a kinder climate. And he would remain, quietly waiting for signs of their return.

"Father!"

Númendil froze at the voice, momentarily taken by the unpleasantness of awakening. Out of a strange instinct, he closed his eyes, like a boy who wanted to sleep only five minutes more before he was awakened for his lessons, but he was not allowed to do so. A small yet strong hand pulled at his robe.

"Father!"

Resigned, he opened his eyes again, and was electrified by the shock of two bright grey eyes, brimming with life. His musings became blurred, unreal again. Then, his son grabbed at his hand, and the fire finally flew from the sparks.

_Amandil._ Sometimes, Númendil wondered if he had grasped the notion that this bright and quick spirit, this boy who protested in outrage when he did not receive an immediate answer and ran like a whirlwind around the house had been born from Emeldir and him. Back when she held him as a newborn baby in her arms, he had just marvelled at her happiness, and wondered how such a small and squirming thing could bring such comfort to a person.

It was only when he started to grow, and felt pulled into his vivid world of shouts, laughs and cries, when he had realised that this child offered him the harsh yet precious gift of a Man´s life. And for this he had loved him, more than he did his wife or kin.

"Amandil." he said, looking down at him. "What is it, child?"

The boy was frowning deeply. His clouded expression brought a small feeling of alarm to the slowly awakening conscience of his father.

"I want to go out." he announced. Númendil stared at him, briefly uncomprehending.

"Out of here!" the boy clarified, as if he was a dimwit. "Leave this place and see the city! And then the other cities, too. Mother says that the West is very beautiful."

"Amandil..." his father began, then felt the words trail away from his mouth as they did from his mind. _What could he say to such a thing?_ He felt belatedly aware that he should have expected such a question at some point, from so curious a child, but whenever the boy was with him he was robbed of the ability to think."We cannot go out, my son."

The boy´s frown became a scowl.

"Because of those fat, vile, Morgoth-worshipping merchants? What can they do to stop us?"

Númendil swallowed. _What had Emeldir told him?_

"This is not a polite thing to say about our hosts."

Amandil crossed his arms over his chest, defiant.

"But it´s _true_! Mother said it!"

"Those people... "

Númendil sighed, then sought for a way to rephrase it. Before Amandil´s birth, nobody had shot questions at him that quickly. He had never grown used to it –questions about birds, about plants, about battles, about the Valar, about the seasons, and the inevitable bout of exasperation at his delay.

"Listen to me, my son." he said, picking him up and sitting him on his knees. The boy squirmed a little until at last he found a comfortable position. "West of here lies a city, the greatest and most powerful in the whole of Númenor. There, upon the tallest hill, is the Palace, home of our King, who holds the Sceptre of Elros Tar-Minyatur."

"I know about the Sceptre!" Amandil protested. Númendil´s lips curved in a faint smile.

"Then, you know also that we of the Line of Elros are bound to it, no matter what happens." The boy nodded reluctantly. "We must obey the King who holds the Sceptre in Armenelos, even if he orders us to remain here."

"Is he a Morgoth-worshipper, too?"

The heir to the former Lord of Andúnië sighed.

"One day, a King who honours the Valar will call us back, and give us our freedom, lands and honours." he said instead, allowing his eyes to wander in the twilight shadows. "You will see all those cities then, and you will be a great lord."

"And I will ride to war!" the boy nodded enthusiastically. Númendil stared at him in shock, wondering how such an idea could have got into his head. No member of the Western line had seen a battle since the days of the civil strife, and there was none who had wished to seek such violence.

_Violence..._

As he was thinking this, he fell the pull of a vision start to grip him with cold fingers. He saw a sword, driven into a curled shape that lay on a bed. An altar of fire, and a boy who stared at the flames, terrified. The howling of a wolf.

Worried, he cradled his son´s face with his hand.

"There is no need to be so impatient. A man must learn to wait, and observe the world that lies in front of his eyes. Look." he whispered in his ear, directing his little chin towards the neighbouring tower where most of the sterlings had already fallen asleep. "Do you see those birds, who hide under the cornice?"

_Do you see how they become confounded with the shadows as night falls, do you care for the skill of patiently tracing the flapping of their wings in the dark?_

But Amandil shook his head.

"I do not care for birds. I want to go out now."

_Now._

Númendil´s premonition became stronger, with a sense of urgence that tore at his insides. Danger, fear, bereavement. Loneliness.

_Death._

"No, my child." he pleaded, holding him so close that Amandil squirmed and protested. "Please, stay here with me. Stay here, and be safe."

**(III)**

Once, when he had been very, very little, he had been afraid of the darkness of the corridors. After all, any kind of creature could be lurking in the corners where his eyes did not reach, watching his footsteps. He did not fear being attacked, but not knowing what lay in the shadows made him nervous and uneasy.

Later, as he grew older, he had liked to imagine shapes for those creatures. They had become Orcs with ugly animal faces, holding bloody axes in their claw-like hands, and ghostly Elves who tried to ensnare him with their fell sorcery. He had believed himself a great captain, fought them bravely until he stood alone with a smile, and the corridor was empty.

In silent trepidation, he watched now the imposing gates of the Lord of the Western Wing. The green jasper columns were so big that three men wouldn´t be able to embrace one of them with outstretched arms, and their palm-shaped capitals sustained a huge structure of gold architraves and black ebony statues. He imagined that those were the gates of Mordor, crowded with dark-skinned Orcs who guarded the realm of their master. Or maybe the doors of the Elven palace of Lindon, where men wandered lost, taken by a spell of oblivion as soon as they laid eyes upon them.

_But not him._ The armies of Númenor were waiting for his signal, and he would bring them to a great victory. Feeling his heart brim with renewed courage, he walked inside, refusing to feel intimidated by the imposing proportions of the façade.

Slowly, he forced his breathing to still. He found himself in a great hall, almost as huge as the throne room where his grandfather sat among hundreds of kneeling courtiers. An endless sucession of painted figures in relief covered the walls, and for a while, he could do nothing but stand gaping at them. A fleet of swift warships sailed the Great Sea, an army stood assembled upon the Eastern shores. Orcs, Elves and barbarians fled in terror or knelt to pay tributes to the Sea King who had set foot on Middle-Earth. And in the middle of the scene stood he, Ar-Adunakhôr the Great, tall and radiant with his golden armour.

Little Pharazôn swallowed deeply, fascinated. Lost in warlike imaginations, where he was the one who stood in the middle of the stronghold of his vanquished enemies, he almost failed to hear the sound of soft footsteps upon the stone floor.

"What are you doing here?"

Angry at his carelessness, he stood firmly in place, raising his eyes to meet the enemy who had discovered him. It was a tall lady, whose deep blue robes billowed with the breeze that came through the gardens that lay behind them. Pharazôn watched the swirls, and fancied that they were the deadly undulations of a dragon´s scaly tail.

"I am Pharazôn, the King´s grandson." he announced proudly. "And I go where I wish!"

The lady frowned at him, then gave him a curt bow and continued her way. The boy watched her retreating steps, astounded at his easy victory. And to think that he had never dared to step inside this place before!

Feeling his confidence grow, he resumed his conquering march, and headed towards the Western gate that connected the hall with the rest of the wing. The inner gardens were covered by a varnished lattice, behind which he could distinguish softly-running fountains, trees covered in purple flowers and floors of glazed tiles. Disappointed, he thought that those were similar to his mother´s gardens, and decided to leave such a boring place.

Before he could take his eyes away, however, the boy heard a female voice, and froze in place. Pressing his face against the lattice, he saw an old woman in a dark green robe, leading a girl by the hand. As they passed in front of him, the girl turned back briefly, and he saw her face, pale and beautiful like a flower. She looked sad.

Taken by an impulse, Pharazôn tried to push the lattice, but it had been firmly set in place by the best craftmen of the Island many years before he was born. Muttering a curse that he had once heard from an Adult, he watched her disappear, and bit his lip hard.

So the palace of the Lord of the Western Wing also had a princess! Turmoil brewed in his young heart as he turned away, wondering at those chiseled features and mournful grey eyes that he had seen for but a moment.

_Who was she?_

With a last glance to the reliefs of Ar-Adunakhôr, the boy crossed the hall, and then the Gates of the Western Wing. His conquest had been a great one, but it suddenly felt small and meaningless. He had to come back, and find a way to talk to her. He wanted to know her name.

Pressing his knuckles against an invisible sword, he swore to himself that he would, soon.


	26. A Careless Word

Her hands fumbled with the curtain in the dark, as she blinked the clouds of sleep away from her eyes. The sound was growing in urgency and intensity; a long and shrill scream that reverberated across the yard.

Curling up in a grey cloak, Zarhil ran across the garden, ignoring the glances and the voices whispered behind the shadows. There was light in her daughter´s chambers, and she charged in like a mad fury.

The women who were at the young Princess´s antechamber knelt to offer her a silent bow. She did not waste a moment with them, but instead rushed towards the entrance. Another woman was there –the Nurse-, muttering soothing words in a soft tone.

Zarhil pushed her away as well, and her eyes rapidly sought for the small figure who uttered the terrified screams. She found her crouching, her back pressed against a corner. Crossing the distance between them, she grabbed her hand, and held her down while she struggled and thrashed with a mysterious strength that the quiet girl did not posess during the day.

"Sssssh." she whispered in a hoarse voice. Tears gathered in her eyes, and one of them trickled down the hard skin of her face. "Mother is here. There is nothing to fear."

Slowly, the child´s struggles subsided. Her screams died in a choked sob, and two huge eyes flew open, shining in the dark like reflections upon the water of a well.

"You are with Mother." Zarhil kept crooning in her ear. The girl´s tense limbs relaxed slightly. Little by little, she even grew to accept the intrusion of her caresses, though she did not lean against her.

"You are safe. You had a bad dream."

Zimraphel shook her head.

"No! I didn´t. I _never_ dream!" An anxious spark twinkled in her eye, and she went back to struggling. "Leave me alone!"

Zarhil dried her face with a swipe of her hand, and tried to smile.

"You did not dream."she nodded."You never dream. Please, let me stay with you."

After the initial fright had passed, the girl´s expression grew void and empty. In silence, she studied her mother´s anxious face as if it was but a mosaic or a painting.

After another while, she turned her back to her, and curled in her silk sheets. Zarhil laid a careful hand across her shoulder, almost expecting rejection, but her daughter did not move again.

Now that everything had settled back into an eerie calm, she felt more than ever the urge to weep against the sheets. Many times, she cursed herself for having allowed her family and the King to take her away from her sea-travels, her ship and her brave sailors, and imprison her on dark chambers where every shadow seemed to grow terrible and threatening. She cursed her own strength, of body and mind, that did not avail her against the spell of a suffering, cruel child.

Zimraphel, the baby that survived, was the only creature that she had ever loved with such a frightening intensity. Her family she had always respected, her sailors she had befriended - her husband she liked enough, whenever she was allowed to forget that he was the man who had taken the Sea away from her. But that fair, frail, fathomless creature who had grown in the Sea Lady´s womb by some poignant irony of fate had become her life. Her weakness inspired her tenderness, her pain made her suffer, her beauty excited her pride and wonder – her disease killed her.

_How could such a small thing inspire so much passion?_

Taken by an impulse, Zarhil hugged the tiny form tightly. The limbs went rigid again in silent protest, and soon she was forced to give up. Zimraphel had never accepted her mother´s blind love, never favoured her above her nurse or addressed her the words that she had heard his brother´s daughters whisper in their mother´s ears with a girlish smile. One day, as she had rushed back to her after a long and unbearable ceremony, the girl had turned towards the old woman who was combing her hair, and asked who she was.

_It was the disease._ The disease was at fault for everything, Inziladûn said- and sometimes, Zarhil was sure that there was something else that he knew. But who cared? He was even farther from Zimraphel than she was now, as she held her trembling body in her arms at night. Once, he had told her to ask the child if the dream that scared her so much had a wave in it. Zimraphel had merely shaken her head in denial.

A soft sound of fidgeting, coming from the other side of the bed, brought her to open her eyes. The girl was whimpering, caught into one of her horrible dreams. Zarhil cursed again, over and over, choking with the burning impotence of not being able to wrestle the demons away from her.

_Lady of the Seas_ , she muttered an old prayer, in an almost inaudible voice. With her right hand, she caressed over and over the dishevelled threads of her hair. _Queen of Ships, help her find her way home._

_o-o-o-o-o-o_

The summer sun was shining intensely, even though it was still early in the morning. Inziladûn made a signal for his entourage to wait, and entered the comfortable shade of the inner gardens.

His hands fidgeted with the purple folds, that billowed so conspicuously behind his steps. No matter how many times he wore those ceremonial robes, kept his chin high with hieratic dignity and accustomed himself to have so many people around, there was still some wild side of his soul that felt the urge to tear everything out and return to the lonely sanctuary of his youthful studies.

That day would be especially trying, he thought with a frown. The last war against the desert tribes had officially ended, and today the victorious general would bring his prisoners to the King and the people of Armenelos. The people were bad enough –they were always eager to see blood-, but some of those accursed merchants would also be there, and among them Magon of Gadir, kin to the King. Whenever that crafty serpent had access to the King´s ear, be it for an hour or a minute, the Prince of Númenor had to gather all his allies and double his precautions.

"Already in a hurry, Inziladûn?"

The Prince looked at his wife, who was surrounded by three serving ladies. They were arranging the folds of her robes, and giving the last touches to her braided grey hair while they whispered and prattled among themselves. As they noticed his presence, however, they fell silent.

"We are expected." he replied, then noticed the bags under Zarhil´s eyes. "You have not slept well tonight."

The woman shook her head, and a shadow tensed her features for a moment.

"Nightmares."

Inziladûn swallowed. Whose nightmares those were, he knew it very well.

"Where is she?" he asked then, wondering at the same time at the impulse that brought him to ask that question. _He should greet her when he came to visit,_ a voice whispered inside his mind.

"In her chambers." Zarhil answered, giving him a somewhat surprised frown. Inziladûn nodded, and left her with a muttered indication to hurry that should have rather been addressed to the other women.

As he entered the dark halls, he had to blink several times before he grew accustomed to the new light. Some women abandoned their silent tasks to kneel; the Nurse bowed obsequiously and let him through the door of the antechamber.

Míriel was reading. Her grey eyes were fixed on the pages of an enormous volume in absorbed concentration, and she did not even blink at his entrance. For a moment he stood at the doorstep, wondering at that strange Inzilbêth who had come back to life, her serene beauty animated –tainted- by a kind of vivid insistence.

Back when she was a baby, he had alternatively blamed her disease on her unfortunate birth and her heritage, but years later he had begun to wonder. Crazed ideas crossed his mind, and he fancied that his mother had come back, to stare with huge and enigmatic eyes at those who had killed, buried, and then forgotten her.

In an attempt to dispel his unease, he coughed a little. Conversations with his daughter had grown more and more difficult as the years passed by. She looked at him with cold indifference, and the rare times that she spoke her words made his blood curdle in his veins. Once, she had asked him why did he let her brother die, and no matter who he interrogated about this, everybody swore by the gods that they had not said a single word about that incident in her presence.

Little by little, his visits had disminished. They brought too much pain and puzzlement, and he was too busy to allow her to interfere in his manouevres, his bargains for support, and the tenuous relationship with his father. He had left her to Zarhil and her women, who soothed her when she had bad dreams and looked after her in those chambers, carefully hidden from the prying glances and harsh realities of the world outside. With all his soul he wanted her to be happy - and yet, she would never smile to him.

"Míriel."

"Father." she echoed. Surprised, he looked at her, and she lifted her glance from the lines. He was not used to have her attention so soon.

"What... are you reading?" he asked, feeling as awkward as he had not felt since he was a child and a mad King had stared at him. She frowned, and covered the pages with both hands.

"A book."

_And there it was, again._ Her instinctive mistrust pierced his heart, then left nothing in its wake but a cold disappointment.

He took a sharp breath.

"Your mother and I are leaving for a celebration. She will come back at night to visit you."

Míriel´s voice came out muffled, for she had pressed her face against her protective hands.

"And I cannot go."

Shocked, Inziladûn gazed lengthly at her, but she did not lift her head up.

"I..." he began, unsure of what to say. He hid behind formality . "I... do not think it would be advisable."

"I do not care." she muttered. "I do not want to go with you. Leave me alone."

The Prince felt a knot gather in his throat. _It was the disease. Nothing but the disease,_ he forced himself to remember _. The Curse of Ar-Sakalthôr._

It was not her fault.

"Have a good day, Míriel."

As he crossed the threshold, and walked the length of the corridor in his way out, he had to force his rigid hands to unclench.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The triumphal celebration took place at the square that stood in front of the Palace´s front façade. Inziladûn watched the ceremony from the lower terrace, where some of the most powerful men in the realm had gathered around the King and his family.

Hours passed by, without a moment of respite for the chants and shouts. Prayers, sacrifices and dances gave way to a bloodier spectacle, as the enemy leaders were brought forth in chains and their throats slit to the crowd´s delight. Once that they were dead, voices were heard asking, demanding for more. The King nodded, -Melkor wanted his due-, and the higher ranked of the barbarians followed suit.

Inziladûn stood in silence, watching the rivers of blood flow from the stabs and the agonical expressions with repugnance. The soul of Man, unlike that of animals, Orcs or Elves, was a battleground where the god and the beast fought a perpetual struggle, the late Maharbal had taught him when he was a child. But at certain moments, when a kind of frenzy spread like a disease from man to man, from woman to woman and child to child, everything that was good was drowned under an animal bloodlust.

Next to him, Pharazôn was doing great efforts to appear brave in front of his family. His face was slightly pale, his jaw clenched, but he did not take his eyes away from the sight. His mother touched his shoulder with a proud smile.

One by one, they came to their ignominious end under the various curses and mockeries of their enemies. Inziladûn shivered. Even worse than the general madness, worse than the blood and the corpses that were taken away by piles, what shook him to the core was their glances just before they died. Their voiceless wonder as they stood in the heart of the Jewel of the West, and forgot knives, crowd and executioner to stare at the shimmering reflections of sunlight in the glazed tiles of the magnificent buildings, the white and ochre towers closing upon them like a beautiful shadow of death, haunted him even as he closed his eyes like a coward.

Once that the last of the bodies was dragged away, Ar-Gimilzôr turned his back to the crowd. The people in the terrace followed him to an exquisitely improvised banquet under a cover of braided branches of pomegranate trees. There, the victorious general –a nephew of the governor of Sor- was received with honour among the other guests, and was immediately taken under the wing of an insolent merchant whose long curls were held by gold ringlets like those of a woman. _Azzibal of Sor_ , Inziladûn thought in distaste. The man´s father-in-law, asides from a long-standing associate of Magon of Gadir.

Refusing to be distracted by those thoughts, he watched the King in his throne. Gimilzôr was asking them something, with that severe expression that old age had sculpted in his features like a perennial frown. Gimilkhâd stood at his side, dressed in all his finery and crowned by a diadem of rubies. Under the gems, his dark hair shone like Umbarian ebony – the second in the family to require the services of their father´s favourite dyer, Inziladûn thought a little frivolously.

Soon afterwards, he also spotted his main enemy, Magon of Gadir. The fat merchant, dressed with his usual ostentation, was doting on his grandson in company of his royal daughter and another man. Melkyelid, who wore a flowing dress of yellow and gold with green embroiderings, frowned in disapproval at something that her son said, while Magon laughed loud.

"It is yet too soon for you to say such a thing!" he scolded, ruffling Pharazôn´s curly hair. That small gathering of golden-skinned people looked strangely eerie.

"Your grandfather is a man of extraordinary honour and renown in Númenor and Middle-Earth." Melkyelid told her son, vanity surfacing for a moment in her measured tone. Pharazôn stared curiously at the man.

"Do you rule a great kingdom?"

Magon gave a casual shrug, that was not devoid of affectation.

"Indeed. I rule a house in Gadir, and a couple of factories."

"That is true." the other, younger man nodded. Inziladûn did not see any similitude in their features, so he assumed that he had to be what those people called an "associate" – which, for them, ranked higher than blood kin. "And yet the most powerful men of Gadir, Sor and Umbar, the coastal outposts and harbours, the tributary barbarians and many nobles of Númenor bow before him and lie in his debt."

The young prince frowned.

"I do not understand." he stated, with the bluntness of a child. All the adults laughed.

"One day you will." Magon sentenced, ruffling his hair again. Inziladûn looked away, before they could see him and trap him with a polite and respectful invitation. Even farther, at the edge of the obsidian balustrade, his wife had spotted him and proceeded to call him with gestures. Talking with her was her brother Zakarbal, lord of Forrostar, and a man that Inziladûn wanted very much to have a talk with.

"Hail, Prince of Númenor!" the man saluted, raising his cup of wine. He answered with a nod, and approached them.

"Zakarbal of Soronthil." he greeted politely. "I am glad to see that you were invited."

Those words were not devoid of meaning. It had been some years since their common mistrust for the emerging merchant class, blood ties and a great deal of skill on his part had availed him to win the new lord of the northernmost province for his party, and Ar-Gimilzôr´s insane suspicions had haunted the man´s steps ever since. Zakarbal, a born warrior like his father, and therefore straightforward and not very subtle, did not know how to mince words at Court – and this, together with his devout reverence for the Númenorean gods was probably the only thing that had saved him from being considered a two-faced viper like the unfortunate people of the Western branch.

Still, the issue that had brought his name to the lips of the courtiers and people of Armenelos of late was of a very different nature. His wife had failed repeatedly to bear him a male heir before she was past the age, and now the prestigious Northern Branch, direct descendants of Tar-Anárion, ended with him. Inziladûn had sketched a plan to solve this problem that would reinforce his party at the same time, but it was very rarely that a high-born noble of the Line of Elros would be willing to listen to talks of adoption.

Zakarbal motioned to a servant, who brought wine to him. He accepted it with a smile, but instead of drinking it, he chose to stare into the eyes of his brother-in-law.

"Have you thought about it?" he asked bluntly. The nervous, uneasy shift that ensued told him better than any word that he indeed had.

Zarhil drank a sip.

"I... have." the man finally replied, looking at her. He was too proud to ask for support, but it seemed to Inziladûn that he was encouraging her to speak in some way.

"He was just saying to me that he had not found any other solution."she complied." I told him that our father´s line could not die, and that if he did not care for it himself, the King soon would."

"I do not want one of those accursed merchants to be my heir." Zakarbal mumbled, frowning at the idea. Inziladûn smiled in sympathy, though he was heartened deep inside.

"I do not think that it would go that far." he soothed him.

"No? Look around you." the Northern lord snorted. "They are _everywhere_. Even at the very feet of the Throne, so why not in my house?"

"Then, all the more reason for us to attack first." Inziladûn decided. "I have a candidate."

Zakarbal´s brow furrowed even further. It was obviously a very painful subject to broach for him, a decision that he had only made pushed by an even bigger threat. Inziladûn decided to offer him an arm where he could lean on.

"He is from the line of Elros, of course. Kin of Shemoun, the Southwestern lord, and son of a Council member. One of the very few who has not been bought by our worthy Gold-Makers, in fact, and therefore a natural ally."

Zakarbal drank again, mulling over these words.

"And... what about his father?"

Inziladûn shook his head.

"The gods are with us. He has a brother. An older brother." he added, after a moment of thought. "He is scarcely twenty, a very bright lad."

"And strong?" his brother-in-law asked. For the first time in the conversation, he seemed to be taken by an odd fascination for the idea.

"And strong." Inziladûn confirmed, encouraged. "So what? Would you ... agree to meet with him, then?"

The tenuous instant of trust dissolved in a rush, and Zakarbal instinctively recoiled.

"Well... I am heading North this month, as you know. There are many affairs I have to tend to, being the sole lord and King´s attendant at the same time." he mumbled, not unlike how a child who had been forbidden to talk to strangers would refuse a sweetmeat in the streets. The Prince sighed – _too soon yet_.

And he had already obtained a very important victory.

"Very well." he nodded, taking his first sip of the drink. "Take your time."

His brother-in-law´s eyes widened in slight alarm.

"Please understand that this is not a rejection of your generous proposal. I just..." he began, but Inziladûn cut him with a good-natured gesture.

"Of course not."

"He can look inside your soul." Zarhil informed him, in a mild yet dry streak of malevolence. "There is no need for explanations."

The Prince glared at her, then turned back to Zakarbal.

" _That_ is very far from the truth indeed, in spite of the rumours. I simply understand that..."

Suddenly, however, a figure gesturing at him brought the thread of his words to die away in distraction. It was the Great Chamberlain, his chin discreetly pointing in the direction of the Throne. Careful not to startle his companions, Inziladûn ventured a brief look from the corner of his eye, and what he saw made his blood freeze.

_Magon and the King were talking._

"What is the matter?" Zarhil -always so indiscreet- asked in surprise. He made a vague sign to her and her brother.

"I will be back." he mumbled, walking away. Zakarbal´s eyes widened, but he did not have time to do anything but bow in haste.

The figures of the guests came and went in a blur under the dimmed evening light. Inziladûn passed them by, in search of the man who had alerted him.

"There is an... _interesting_ conversation going on." he whispered in his ear. The Prince nodded in understanding.

"Come with me." he whispered back.

Pretending to be deep in conversation, both walked side by side until they were near enough to the Throne. With great skill, the Chamberlain pretended to have been beckoned by a courtier and bowed to Ar-Gimilzôr. Inziladûn followed him.

"Congratulations on the victory, my King." he said, with another bow. His father´s eyes trailed over him vaguely, and he acknowledged him with a silent nod, absorbed as he was in conversation with the merchant. Profitting of this leave, Inziladûn stayed nearby.

"...his birthday was last week." Magon was saying at the moment. His lips curved into a smile that, for some reason, made a shiver cross the Prince´s spine. "A beautiful boy, they say, healthy and quite clever. Azzibal told me that he loves to wield toy swords and fight "filthy Morgoth-worshippers."

Ar-Gimilzôr´s features tensed. His eyes took that feverish glint that Inziladûn had learned to despise so much, and his hand tightened around the Sceptre.

_Danger,_ a shrill voice pounded in his ears. He tried to choke his sudden fear, his bile as he met the golden merchant´s fatherly smile with a calm glance.

_So this was what he had been planning to do..._

"The line of King Elendil are proved traitors, who have been removed from the King´s august sight." he rebuked. "They should not be mentioned in his presence."

Ever gracious in his manners, Magon bowed low.

"Oh, dear. Indeed, I was out of line. I humbly beg for your forgiveness."

Inziladûn did not answer, but turned his attention to his father instead. Ar-Gimilzôr was frowning, and staring at a certain point beyond the terrace´s railing. He barely seemed to have heard his interventions, so absorbed he was in his own thoughts.

The light of the lamps and candles that servants were laying around them cut sharp lines on his profile, and lent a strange quality to his glance. With a startle, Inziladûn realised that he reminded him of the late Ar-Sakalthôr, brooding in the shadows. Out of a sudden instinct, he swallowed deeply and followed the direction of his father´s stare.

Down in the almost deserted square, under the faint glow of fannels, several men were washing the spurts of blood that remained upon the stone pavement.

o-o-o-o-o-o

For all the following days, the news of his informers were unanimously worrying. His father was oddly thoughtful, his nights were restless, and he had visited the temple of Melkor twice. Even worse, he had refused to meet with Inziladûn. Ar-Gimilzôr had always feared his son´s ability to unlock carefully guarded secrets and dark thoughts – this was something that he knew since he was a child.

Back when the Western line had been abolished, their lives had been spared, with the exception of Eärendur´s voluntary departure. This had brought some relief to Inziladûn, who had feared the worst for his friends. But, what about a new heir, the monster´s spawn, the continuation of their line and hopes? Would even he be innocent in the all-fearing, all-consuming eye of the King?

Ar-Gimilzôr had heard of the baby´s birth years ago, and done nothing. Probably, some kind of remorse for his grandson´s death – _murder_ \- had stayed his hand back then, but Inziladûn knew too well that the ambition of a merchant, the will of Melkor and a tyrant´s fear held a power that was all too terrible.

_Curse that merchant!_ He had learned to read the King´s unlimited penchant for suspicion, and exploited it more easily and ruthlessly than his own son had done through the years. _Númendil... Valandil..._ they might be ready to offer their own child as a sacrifice, but Inziladûn was not.

Day and night, he had the Merchant Princes who stayed as guests followed, and those from Sor with special care. But he could not follow the King´s every movement, not when his father denied him access, and this tore at his insides. He felt powerless, hurting himself over and over against the same stone wall. Disturbing visions plagued his mind, the same that had once warned him of his infant son´s birth and murder.

One night, as he lay restless in his bed, he was taken by an unnatural slumber, deep and fathomless like a black hole. Ghostly figures danced around him, of grey women whose eyes were brimming with tears.

All of a sudden, a pair of hands grabbed his cloak.. He turned around, searching for a presence, and found himself face to face with the anguished face of Emeldir.

_Help us, Inziladûn!_ she cried. Shaken, he offered his hand to her, but it slipped away like a cloud of mist.

Even before the last tatters of the vision had relinquished their vivid hold on his mind, Inziladûn jumped from his bed, and felt his way in the darkness towards the hiding place of the Seeing Stone.

\----


	27. The Wolf´s Howl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had abandoned this for a very long time. Now I am back.

**Note:** I had abandoned this for a very long time. Now I am back.

**Previously on "Full of Wisdom:** Gimilzôr became King, sought the alliance of the Merchant Princes from the colonies by marrying his younger son to the daughter of Magon of Gadir, and started coming hard on the Faithful in order to anticipate his heir Inziladûn´s attempts to restore the Old Ways. The family of the Lords of Andúnië, who had been restored to their ancient seat in the beginning of Ar-Sakalthôr´s reign, were disposessed again and put under the custody of the merchants of Sor, in the East of the island. The existence of Númendil´s young son, Amandil, had been passing unnoticed until Magon lets a careless word escape in front of Gimilzôr during a Court celebration, making Inziladûn (who already lost his newborn son to his father´s manouevres) fear the worst. But first, he must keep Númendil, whose Elven blood is uncommonly strong, from fading away - the scheming will come later.

# 

# The Wolf´s Howl

" _Númendil! Númendil!"_

He opened his eyes in confusion, wondering if someone was calling him. Everything was empty, except for some twisted shapes that gleamed on the wall.

He closed them again.

" _Númendil!"_

An irregular darkness enveloped him, like a mantle with tears and holes. Strange images came to haunt him in his retreat, a frightened child, a silent plea for help, a woman crying. He curled under the blankets in an attempt to suppress the growing feeling of loss. It was as if there was a gaping hole in his soul, but he could not remember why.

_Father! I want to play!_

There was the distant remembrance of a hand, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a world full of loud laughs, of quick and immediate words. A small hand... a child´s hand.

Where had it gone? Why couldn´t he feel it anymore?

Sleep beckoned to him, and its lure was stronger than ever. It promised rest and warmth, whispering in his ears that there was nothing left to care about. But Númendil had an instinct, somehow, that still forced him to fight it. The child´s hand was not there anymore. He was afraid.

If nobody pulled him back, he would never wake up again.

" _Númendil!"_

Something cold touched him. It was not the cold of tears as they dried, but a different, intense and solid kind of cold. An object numbed his fingers, robbing him of the warmth of the blankets.

"Númendil!"

Now, for the first time, Númendil could hear the Voice. It was the voice of a man, strong and commanding. Galvanized by the shock, he opened his eyes wide, and met another pair of sea-grey, determined ones.

"The Shadow is taking you. You must fight it, Númendil!"

_The Shadow..._ In a first moment, the words rolled inside his mind, their meaning unknown. Little by little, however, an awareness began to dawn upon him. Someone was breathing loudly and irregularly over his neck.

His hands held a black stone, which commanded his attention. He remembered having held that thing in the same manner days ago, when Amandil asked to see it for his birthday...

_Amandil!_

The name was like an eruption, wreaking chaos in his mind as the remembrances resurfaced. The sea-grey eyes stared at him in silence, allowing the pain to pierce his soul.

" _Do not worry about your son. He will be the King´s honoured guest in Armenelos."_

_The exultant spark in the merchant´s eyes belied the concern in his tone. Emeldir held back a sob, pressing her hand against his._

_Behind Azzibal, and between two men who flanked him as if he was a prisoner, the boy shot bewildered glances in their direction, still unable to wholly understand what was going on._

" _But I do not want to go to Armenelos! I want to stay here! Mother, I want to stay here!"_

_Emeldir supressed a whimper._

" _Young and noble guest..." Azzibal began, but Amandil bolted off, and the merchant´s politeness was changed into an adamant expression as he ordered the men to hold him back. Undaunted, Amandil struggled, bit and kicked their legs._

" _Let me go, worshippers of Morgoth!"_

" _There is no need to be so rude." Azzibal frowned in disapproval. "The King would not like to hear those words. Everything is ready, take him away."_

" _No! I do not want to go!"_

_Númendil stood still, watching the men as they pulled his son away. He could not move, or think of anything to say; the many different, lightning-quick emotions had paralysed him. Azzibal bowed, then retired, allowing him a last glimpse of the terrified plea in his fearless child´s eyes._

" _Father!"_

_Wordlessly, he muttered the litany of his five generations of prosecuted ancestors. The sacrifices that each of them had made to save Númenor from the Downfall, and the prophecies of the Ultimate Sacrifice that would come before the end. A part of him wondered if it could be this._

We were sent that dream so none of us would ever forget our mission. _his grandfather had said._ Because if we forget, Númenor will be lost.

_The words of duty finally found their way to his mouth._

" _Amandil, remember us. Do not forget..."_

_But then, he felt himself pushed aside by an unexpected force. Astonished, he turned towards his attacker, and saw Emeldir step forwards, mighty and regal in spite of her short stature._

" _No, Amandil! Forget us!" she cried, with a strength that belied the traces of tears upon her cheeks. "Forget us and live!"_

_The door was closed behind their backs. For a moment, both stood in silence, too thunderstruck to say a word. Then, Amandil´s voice reached them from outside, and she fell to the floor, her body racked by sobs._

Back then, he had not wept. He had comforted her as well as he was able, feeling how her crying was gradually muffled as he held her in his arms. Then, he sat on his chair, and began to forget everything. In his dreams, only the vivid scene was replayed again and again, and he stood still for a hundred times while his son was taken away from him.

As the days passed, even this had become blurred. Now, for the first time, the emotions assaulted him as strongly as they had back then. He stood, shaking, once more paralysed by their intensity.

"My son..." he mumbled. Emeldir´s hand pressed his shoulder.

"Do not grieve for him, Númendil." the grey eyes told him. "Once, you offered him to me freely, and I did not accept your gift. But I accept it now. He is under my protection, and I will let no harm come to him."

Valandil´s heir blinked in admiration. Those were the words of a king, a king that he had never met before. Was he the one that Eärendur had announced?

Emeldir was staring at the ceiling, and muttering something like a prayer. He heard some of the words, shaken by a tremulous joy.

"Thank you, lord Inziladûn... thank you..."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was truly warm.

"And now, you must carry on with your mission." the voice continued to speak in his mind. "If you die, your death will only become a triumph for your enemies. Live, and I swear to you that your son and you will see happier times."

Númendil´s admiration gave way now to a different sort of emotion. There was a new strength seeping through his limbs and soul, encouraging him to fight and resist. To discard his apathy, like cristal shards that had to be taken away from his still bleeding skin.

_Encouraging him to live._

"Bear more children. Strenghten your line."

Númendil nodded, feeling tears trail down his cheeks. He felt like he had just awakened from a long and dreary nightmare, drawn by the light of that man who addressed him. The King had been found, and he would save his son.

The end of their sufferings was near.

"I will." he swore, his ability to master the Seeing Stone restored at last. A beautiful smile lighted Emeldir´s features, and she pulled him into an embrace "I will, my King."

* * * * *

Amandil advanced as swiftly as he could, yet his steps seemed small and slow in the midst of a boundless immensity. Above his head, the ceiling shone like a million stars, and the intense colours of the columns dazzled him.

"We must hurry. The King is waiting."

He did not reply. Looking down, he bit his lip, and tried to get the flutter in his stomach to settle.

During the last days, he had travelled a very long distance across the Eastern regions of Númenor. Once, this would have seemed terribly exciting, and he would have peeked through the curtains of his carriage to see the people, the cities, the villages that had all been part of fabulous dreams and bedtime tales. But instead he had curled in the darkness like a baby, and forced himself not to cry as he was dragged farther and farther from his parents. Each mile, each shout announcing that they had passed a new landmark was a new cause for dread – even if he could escape, how would he go back on his own now?

In front of them – _the Morgoth worshippers!-_ he had pretended to be brave, like an adult. Adults were not always brave, and he had seen tears in Mother´s eyes when he was taken away, but he would never show his fear to those people. When they tended to his needs they were always polite, but he had heard them calling him "the prisoner" when they thought he was not listening.

They also said many other things. One morning, a merchant of Sor muttered something about "the family of the traitors", and added that the King feared the deceitful plots of Amandil´s father and grandfather. This had made the boy indignant, and he had been about to step out of his carriage and tell him that his _father_ had said that they had to obey the King always, no matter what he did.

When they reached Armenelos, it had been night. Of the "greatest and most powerful city in Númenor" of Father´s tales he had barely seen some blurred lights, and a narrow street full of people watching from doorsteps. The Palace was made of long corridors that never seemed to end, and dark chambers where he was left alone to sleep.

That night, he had finally broken down and cried.

Early in the next morning, a woman woke him up "because he was going to meet with the King", and he had felt his hopes rise a little. Thoughts and ideas ran like wild horses in his mind... first he would bow, and look at him in a very serious and sincere way. Then, he would tell him that his father and grandfather did not want to deceive or fight him, and that they would always obey him no matter what he did. He would surely understand –he _had_ to. He just couldn´t look intimidated, or let fear get the best of him.

Those were the words that Amandil repeated over and over to himself as he was taken into an even bigger hall, and made to bow in front of a small man in red silks who gave him a cursory glance and stood up to talk to someone else. _He was alone here, to fend off for himself. No Father or Mother._

He could not be afraid.

This started to become very difficult when the man in red silks and another one in yellow beckoned him to follow them through an imposing archway of porphyry and ivory. Inside, there was yet another hall, the likes of which Amandil had never seen in his life. It was bigger than the whole house where he had lived until now, counting all the floors – maybe as much as three or four times as big. Colourful mosaics covered the walls, ivory carvings filled the ceiling, and the polished obsidian floor gleamed darkly under his feet.

Amandil did not like the smothered yet reverberating noise of his footsteps. Swallowing, he forced his eyes to focus and search for the King, and saw a golden throne upon a flight of stairs. A man sat upon it, rigid and still like a statue.

Once again, the boy had to battle his fears. He kept walking forwards with a high chin, and the two men fell at his sides. Many echoing steps later, he reached the bottom of the stairs –where there were more men, standing and peeking at him- but as soon as he tried to climb the first of them, he felt a strong hand grab at his shoulder.

"Lower your eyes, and bow!" a voice whispered on his ear. Taken by the urgency in its tone, he obeyed.

"Raise your head." another voice said, calmer and graver. Amandil obeyed again and sought the King´s face, feeling small because of the throne´s height. He saw a tall and thin man with a sceptre, already giving signals of old age. There was a diadem upon his forehead and a beautiful purple mantle over his shoulders, but his eyes were dark and cold, and his lips tight. Amandil had never been judged so unkindly by anyone.

His spirits sank.

"I..." he began. The hand pinched his shoulder again, and he repressed a yelp of pain.

The man in the throne did not move.

"We bid welcome to Amandil, son of Númendil, to our city of Armenelos." he said, in a strangely monotonous voice. Amandil tried again, as quickly as he could.

"Thanks, but I..."

A rustle of robes reached his ear, and he fell into a bewildered silence. The King´s mouth moved as if he was going to say something, but he just stared at him and closed it again.

Suddenly, he stood up from his throne, turned his back to them, and left. Everybody bowed deeply to the retreating figure except for Amandil, who sat there, thunderstruck.

"The audience is over." one of the men-in-the-stairs declared in a solemn voice.

* * * * *

This audience with the King put an end to Amandil´s expectations. Barely half an hour later, back into the dark room and still dressed in his rich, useless robes, he could do nothing but wonder forlornly at what had just taken place.

He did not understand. Why had the King not wanted to listen to him? He had taken him away from his parents, brought him all the way here, and now he did not even allow him to explain. It was not fair!

Shaking a little, he curled over himself. That stare had made him feel horrible, like he was alone and had done something very bad and everybody hated him. He thought of Mother, and how she smiled whenever she said that she was so proud of him. Somehow, it all seemed so distant now.

He felt the urge to cry again, and there was no willpower left to repress it. Warm tears gathered in his cheeks. What was going to happen now?

Taken by this anxiety, he did not hear the voices outside the door, or the sharp click as somebody fumbled with the handle. A light fell upon his face, and he hid it between his hands in alarm.

"Stand up and kneel!" a harsh male voice ordered him. Amandil was growing tired of everybody making him go up and down like a puppet, and he refused to obey. A soft hand caught his wrist, trying to pry his hands away from his face.

The boy resisted, ashamed of his tears. Between his fingers, he had a blurred glimpse of a green flowing robe, and recognised the woman who had dressed him that very morning.

"The Prince of Númenor is here to see you." she announced quietly. Amandil shook her off, then quickly brushed his cheeks clean before she could react. Two men were with her in the room, and there were lots of light now.

He blinked many times, glad that he could pretend it was the light what hurt him. _The Prince of Númenor?_ Now, who was that?

Before he could wonder more about it, a third man walked inside. The other men bowed and left at his signal, and the woman followed them. Only Amandil stood in place, watching him warily.

It was a tall man, with a diadem and a purple cloak that reminded him briefly of the King. But the ressemblance ended here: this one was younger, with a sharp nose and sea-grey eyes that made him look remarkably like Amandil´s father. The boy stared at him, astonished, while his forehead curved in a pondering frown.

Suddenly, the man knelt in front of him, and sought for his glance. His eyes were bright and deep, and Amandil felt as if he was sucked away.

"Amandil, son of Númendil, I am your father´s friend."

Shock turned to wonder, then to a tugging sensation of recognition that almost brought the tears back to the boy´s eyes. Those words were in Mother and Father´s language!

"Who are you?" he asked, willing his voice not to sound tremulous. The man shook his head.

"I am Inziladûn, son of the King. But there is no time for this now." A bit awkwardly, he fumbled with his cloak, and took out a small brown bag which he laid on Amandil´s hand. The boy stared at it, wondering if he should be more surprised at the man´s uncanny ressemblance to Númendil, at his goodwill, or at the fact that he was the son of that horrible man. "Keep this hidden. When dinner is served to you, you must slip this into your drink. Swear that you will not forget!"

"Why?"

The man´s look became even more intense.

"Swear it!"

Amandil´s head hung down. Here, nobody liked him, and he should not trust them. And yet– _this_ man was different. He looked familiar. He talked like his parents. He did not make him bow and then refused to meet his eyes.

So in the end, he nodded, even if he had no idea why.

"I... I will."

The man –Inziladûn- smiled, a quick, relieved smile that made him feel warm.

"Thank you. Now, listen to me." His tone was laced with compassion. "You must be strong, even if you are afraid and you miss your parents. You must be brave, no matter what happens. One day you will be free, and you will see all your loved ones again."

Amandil swallowed the funny feeling in his throat.

"My... my father said that one day the King would give us back our freedom, our lands and our honour." he managed to stammer. "But the King did not want to... even listen to me. He stood up and left!"

For a moment, he thought he saw a strange expression cross Inziladûn´s features. Before he could decide what it was, however, it disappeared again, leaving nothing but a frown of determination.

"Your father does not speak lightly. What he said will become true one day, but you must wait. We all must wait." As if in a sudden hurry, he stood up again, and arranged mechanically the folds of his cloak. "Do not forget what you swore!"

"Wait!" Amandil saw the man turn back to leave, and panic filled him. "Do not... do not go!"

The man stopped in his tracks. His shoulders tensed, as if trying to shake an unwelcome feeling away.

"I have no choice." he said, his words already muffled by the distance. Then, he crossed the threshold, and he was gone.

* * * * *

## "To the lady Hanni, daughter of Imubal heir of Maharbal, greetings..."

Inziladûn stared at the letter that he had just written with his own hands, studying its contents with a critical look. Once that he was satisfied, he summoned his secretary, and handed it to him together with the necessary instructions. Then he sat back to wait, while a sigh escaped from tightly pursed lips. _One._

Making promises was easier than finding the means to fulfill them, he thought in this brief instant that was allowed to him between careful and time-consuming manouevres. To have allies in the Palace and the provincial courts was a must, without which not even the exalted heir to the Númenorean Sceptre was worth anything. And for this, he needed to bend to others, be attentive to their needs and even –sometimes- play games with them.

Once, he remembered, he had despised those practices as part of the Merchant Princes´s artifices, and lived in proud isolation from the corrupted world that surrounded him. He had kept himself pure, Eru´s Chosen One and the bearer of true doctrine. He had studied the ancient texts, written treatises where he proved the truth and logic of the Faithful´s beliefs, until one day he found himself holding his son´s dead body in his arms and understood that none of those high-flowing theories would give him the power to change this forsaken land.

Years had passed since that day, and now, once again, a child was in danger. A child that was much more than those terrified sea-grey eyes, and a small body huddled against the walls of his room. If Amandil was killed, the Western line, the bearers of the Wave Dream, would be broken. He would be king, but his allies would be no more.

Inziladûn was sure that the Merchant Princes and his father had thought the same thing. The boy had been brought to the Palace to die. For a long time, remorse –he knew- had stayed the King´s hand, but finally the avidity of Melkor and his power-hungry allies had not allowed him to redeem the murder of his grandson.

This remorse, for Gimilzôr, was a terrible weakness. He had been trying to get rid of it for years, knowing that his enemies could find a way to profit from it. And now, he thought, the time had come to use it for their own advantage.

A servant knelt upon the threshold, announcing the arrival of his guest. Inziladûn nodded, and told him to lead him in. Mere seconds later, the round silhouette of Hannon walked into the room, and the deep bows of the old priest of Melkor greeted him thrice.

Years had been anything but kind to the Prince´s chief tutor. The wrinkles of old age marred his once elegant face, and abundant grey locks had overshadowed the chestnut brown of his hair. Furthermore, as it happened to many pleasure-loving Palace courtiers -many of whom had grown old during Inziladûn´s larger lifetime-, a life of luxury had finally taken its toll and made his body grow in width almost as much as in height. The Prince saw the enormous belly, which seemed about to burst under the white and gold priestly robes, the plump cheeks and chubby fingers full of rings, and wondered if one chair would be enough to hold so much weight.

Still, undaunted by the ominous crack of the perfumed sandalwood, the man accepted a tray of honey sweetmeats with enthusiasm. Even as they were still busy exchanging greetings, he swallowed two and considered a third with an appreciative glance.

Inziladûn felt the need to shake his head. Hannon was the least spiritual priest that he had known, the most immoral of tutors and the most immoderate of courtiers, and yet the cunning that sparkled in those small eyes could hardly be dismissed. From a relative low position, he had entered the Court, became chief responsible for the education of a heir to the Sceptre and finally the Palace head priest. Since the very beginning, he had set his intelligence and resources to work for his own advancement, as well as the amassing of riches that provided for his pleasures. He had cared for nothing besides himself, and this with a trained and focused dedication that other people, who worked for worthier causes, would easily have envied.

This was why all the Palace had been in an uproar when, nearly twenty years ago, Head Priest Hannon announced that he was marrying a young and beautiful woman, daughter of a Palace provider. Though her Sorian ascent had become respectable in Ar-Gimilzôr´s time, she was still beneath a long-standing courtier and a priest. And several years later, to their even greater shock, his wife had given him children. All those who saw the unscrupulous hedonist dote immoderately on his adolescent daughter and infant son had to stop and rub their eyes, then shake their heads in disbelief.

Inziladûn, however, had thought differently back then. Until that moment, Hannon had been lost to him, firmly anchored in a present whose last days he would never see. His daughter and son had been his ties with the future, with the Númenor of Ar-Gimilzôr´s death and his old pupil´s rule. Worried for their advancement, he had suddenly developed an obsequious interest in the wayward prince that the Melkorian and high merchant circles had so maligned.

_And this was why his help would be so useful._

"My dear Inziladûn!" The old man shook his head in mild reprobation, as he eyed the whole contents of the room. "Still so austere, I see."

"After all those Court ceremonies, I feel the need to rest now and then, in the solitude of my own quarters." he replied with a modest shrug. "To have some hours of quiet, simple life – and see a few old friends."

Hannon bowed at the compliment. Another honeycake –the fourth- found the way to his mouth, while a servant poured tea in his cup.

"Some rose petals in the tea would be nice." he observed thoughtfully. Inziladûn ordered them with an indulgent smile, and watched how he raised the cup and smelled it like a connoisseur before taking his first sip.

"Your hospitality is far more magnificent than your rooms, my lord." he finally declared. Inziladûn frowned.

"Should I take this as a reproach, or as a compliment?"

"I suppose it would be more advantageous if you took it as a reproach. You never cared for my compliments." the priest joked. The Prince nodded – he remembered well Hannon´s jealousy of his subordinate Maharbal´s strange hold over their young charge.

But Maharbal was long dead now, and he needed this man´s help.

"I always held you in the highest reverence." he assured him, drinking a cautious sip of the rose-petal tea. As he had feared, it had a sickly sweet taste that he found almost unbearable. "This was why, I was thinking of late...."

Inziladûn´s voice trailed away deliberately, and he was rewarded by the glimpse of an interested expression in his old tutor´s guarded features. Encouraged, he waited for a while before he continued.

"I have been in talks with my noble brother-in-law for a while, the lord Zakarbal of Forrostar." he said. "Due to his unfortunate lack of heirs, he has been thinking of adopting Hiram, the son of the chief of the Palace Guard."

Hannon nodded, without betraying any sign of surprise. Maybe he had already gathered it from other sources, the younger man thought.

"An auspicious decision, my lord."

Inziladûn took a distracted sip of the cup, repressed a grimace, and continued.

"Indeed. And still, there are some loose ends yet in the matter. You of all people might know that the chief of the Palace guard has been the target of some... malicious gossip within the walls of the Palace."

Hannon frowned. This time, Inziladûn was certain that his ignorance was feigned.

"Malicious gossip?"

"They call him impious, and even Elf-friend. Of course, the life he leads is as respectable and honourable as any, but you know the power of envy." The Prince shrugged. "It is enough that someone has heard about the adoption plans to incite the jealousy of all those who might have hoped to see a kinsman of theirs rule the North."

The old priest sighed.

"This is indeed true, alas! People do not pay heed to moral precepts anymore, and have forgotten to strive for perfection. Pettiness and smallness of heart grow day by day in this sinful city."

Inziladûn took breath. In his childhood, he had grown used enough to his teacher´s flawless hypocrisy, but as an adult he did not feel like listening to his sermons.

"The matter is, I have thought of several ways to solve this. And there is one, which I intend to pursue above all others, that interests you particularly."

"Interest me?" Hannon´s curiosity was back. He nodded.

"It has not escaped my notice that you have grown a fine family in those last years. Those who know her have nothing but words of praise for your beautiful and virtuous daughter."

The flicker of interest became an avid gleam, that all the old man´s skill could not hide from the Prince´s prying glance.

"You are a highly respected member of the Great God´s clergy, and a good friend of mine. I have thought that a match between this Hiram and your daughter would be advantageous to the young man and a fine gift for her. What do you think?"

For one of the few times in his long career, Hannon was stuck with words.

"I... my lord..." He bowed. "As a father... I have no words..."

Inziladûn cut him with a gesture.

"There is no need for them. I am... grateful for all the years you spent teaching me. There are still some impediments looming in the horizon, I must confess, like Zakarbal´s consent and, of course, your own..."

"My daughter, like me, is at your service for whatever need you may have of us, my lord!" Hannon exclaimed, still incredulous. Inziladûn imagined how the sweet thought with its various spreading branches was invading, little by little, every corner of the man´s mind.

_His daughter, the future Lady of Forrostar._ His daughter, the wife of one of the most respected Council members, and kin to the King. In all his years, his ambitions had been many and high, but this has remained even beyond the reach of a powerful priest of Melkor. Not of one who did not have a drop of the blood of Elros running through his veins.

"I was sure you would accept, as one who understandably has her best interests in mind." he said, with a grave nod. Then, his features relaxed a little, and he sighed. "Such is the sway that our children hold over us! Since we cradle them in our arms for the first time, we know that we would do anything to make them happy. Why, as you know, I am a father myself..."

"May the gods bless and keep the life of the young princess." Hannon recited obligingly. Inziladûn nodded, while his thoughts wandered for a moment towards the child of the shadows. _Would she ever have a happy marriage?_

But his musings were brief, and he forced himself to return to the matter at hand.

"Our children are our soul." he sentenced. "They are pure and innocent, as we once were, and have so many years, so many joys to live yet."

"Indeed." Hannon ate another cake, signalling his agreement. He looked exultant.

"Which brings me to a different issue..." Inziladûn continued. Something in his expression, despite his casual tone, warned the experienced priest that what he was going to say was important. His features sobered, and he gave him his full attention.

"Yes, my lord?"

"As you surely know, a certain child arrived to the Palace yesterday, summoned by the King."

Hannon blinked, then made a cautious gesture of assent.

"The grandson of the prisoner of Sor, yes. I... was told."

Inziladûn sighed again, allowing his glance to grow lost in the distance.

"I saw him this morning. He... looked quite scared, of course. I felt pity for him."

"He is the King´s honoured guest."

The Prince shook his head in impatient dismissal.

"You know as well as I do that he will not survive much longer."

Shocked, Hannon surrendered to the instinct of staring left and right in search of indiscreet ears. His body tensed, causing the wooden chair to screech again.

"I do not know..."

"I want to save that boy." Inziladûn interrupted him. "He is my kin on my mother´s side, and I have an obligation towards him."

"But..." As if his calculations told him that his position did not allow for objections, Hannon let the words trail away in his mouth, and changed to a more obsequious, almost caressing tone. "My dear lord Inziladûn, I agree wholeheartedly with your noble feelings. That unfortunate child deserves all our compassion, and I pray to the Great God whom I serve that his life will be long and prosperous. But we are mere mortals before the might and wisdom of the Sceptre." He bowed formally. "We must abide by its decisions."

"The King found his family to be guilty of treason and impious practices, and abolished it." Inziladûn nodded. "But the boy was not even born when this happened. He is innocent."

"And yet, "Hannon´s face was a perfect mirror of regret "he is their heir."

"And yet," Inziladûn insisted "there could be a second way. Something... that could preserve his life and reassure the King at the same time."

"And what would it be? Of course, such a thing would ... bring great happiness to me."

In spite of the approval in his words, Hannon looked a bit wary. He was right to feel that way, Inziladûn thought – his quick mind should have already begun to suspect that the ultimate purpose of this conversation had been to win him as an ally for this perilous cause. And still, his daughter´s marriage with the heir of Zakarbal was too great a prize to back down.

In any case, it was time to reassure the old man a little.

"You are a priest of the King of Armenelos. Of course, I am not an expert in custom and ritual, and I could be wrong in this," he bowed as a signal of humility "but I have thought that to have him enter Melkor´s service would not be a difficult thing."

Hannon let go of the cup he was holding, as quickly as if a stray droplet had scalded his hand.

"Enter Melkor´s service, my lord? But... he is..."

"The grandson of the Former Lord of Andúnië, yes." Inziladûn finished for him. "But now he has no family; the law erased their names and the King´s summons broke their ties. Think about it, Hannon. If the Great God claimed him, the Western line would be broken, and the King would need not fear the traitors anymore."

"And he would live." the priest added, mulling it over. "But... how would that come to be? The King..."

Inziladûn summoned his willpower, and fixed his sea-grey eyes on Hannon´s shifting ones. The old man held his glance, uncomfortable and mesmerised at the same time.

"I will ask this one favour of you, as a token of our friendship and our long years of close acquaintance. If you advise the King to take this course of action, invoking the will of the god that you serve, he will listen to you, of this I am certain. Do this for this boy, and I will reward you as if it was my own son you had saved."

Hannon´s forehead was creased in a deep frown. He was thinking it over –pondering the benefits and dangers of saving Amandil´s life, Inziladûn guessed. But what else could be his ultimate conclusion? Since the beginning of the conversation everything had been made clear enough; for the sake of his daughter´s marriage, and the hopes of further favours, the ambitious man would not say no. He was caught in a sweet snare, too difficult to undo.

"The King speaks with the Great God." he objected. "He may receive a signal..."

"The King would never take the words of a priest lightly." Inziladûn argued back. "And the King of Armenelos will rejoice in his new servant."

Hannon took another cake with a distracted hand, and began munching at it.

"I could try..." he ventured. The Prince cut him in exasperation.

"I am sure that you will not deny me such a small thing." His tone grew confidential, almost like a secret whisper. "I do not know what is it that made me feel so strongly for this boy´s fate, but now I can hardly think of anything else. Maybe it is because he reminds me of myself, when I was a child... or maybe it´s the thought that, had he been alive, my son would be his age."

The priest looked out of sorts at the mention of the longly-silenced tragedy. In a dull voice, he muttered a short prayer to Melkor the Soul-Deliverer, and gave him a look of sympathy that for once Inziladûn did not feel to be wholly feigned.

After all, he was also a father.

"I understand." he nodded, swallowing his last reluctance. "I will do my best."

The Prince smiled warmly. _He had won._

"Thank you, Hannon. May the gods be with you always, and guide you in your tasks."

* * * * *

Amandil lay wide awake in bed, tossing and turning under the covers. The silk sheets were already tangled in such a mess that it was impossible to see where each of them began or ended anymore.

He could not sleep. Back home, it was long ago since he ceased being afraid of the dark, but in that shadowy Palace his baby fears had come back with a vengeance. He could not see the things that lurked behind the heavy curtains, the long galleries or the labyrinth of chambers in the wing where he had been imprisoned. And when he closed his eyes, it was even worse, as sleep brought him nightmares where a man with dark eyes and tightly pursed lips wanted to hurt him and refused to listen to him.

The boy curled under what remained of his sheets, even though there were drops of sweat upon his forehead. Somehow, this made him feel a little more protected. He could stay there, he thought, and pretend that his mother was the one sleeping next door.

_Tomorrow, everything will be all right_. _Tomorrow, everything will be all right..._

He was awoken by a persistent tug in his left arm. Mumbling something, he refused to open his eyes at first –in the last days, he had grown less and less fond of the reality that surrounded him-, but then the tug became a hurtful grip, and he jumped in his bed.

Before he could yell, a hand closed upon his mouth. Bewildered, he stared around, and realised that it was still night. The woman holding him was the young lady who had been there since the first morning, Hanni -she tended to his needs by day, but she had never entered the room like this when he was sleeping.

Without wasting any time, she grabbed him by the hand.

" _Come with me!"_ she whispered in his ear. _"And be quiet!"_

Amandil felt himself pulled out of bed, and dragged towards the door. Surprise, as well as the lingering haze of sleep made him unusually docile to her manouevres. As they entered her own chamber, the disquieting sounds reached his ears for the first time.

Footsteps. Hushing. _Whispers._

" _Quick!"_ she said, holding a big box of clothes open. _"Enter, and do not make a noise!"_

A providential instinct brought Amandil to obey without question. Curling against the soft fabrics of dresses, and hugging his knees with his arms, he lowered his head and let her pull the lid back in place. Complete darkness followed, and he swallowed deeply to repress a wave of fright.

Meanwhile, the noises were becoming clearer and stronger. They came from the adjoining room, the one where Amandil had been sleeping a moment ago.

"Thrice damn our stupid luck!" a man complained. "Where could he have gone?"

"That´s strange!"

A sharp bang ensued, and the various noises of things being thrown upon the floor.

"Not here, either. He´s not anywhere in this room!"

"Maybe he went to have a piss?"

"Shhhh!" A sharp whisper cut the growing ruckus. "If he is around, your noises will scare him away!"

"I still think that this is too... strange." another of them insisted. "He is here all night! Why would he disappear just when we...!"

"Maybe he knew?"

"Nobody could have told him!"

"And what if he had a... vision, or something? After all, he is kin to the King, too."

"Don´t be stupid!"

"Listen." The man of the sharp whispers commanded the attention of his companions once again. "We have not been paid to build wild theories, but to do our job. Let us search the adjoining rooms, maybe we will find a clue there. And you two, stay at the corridor, in case that he returns!"

Some grumbling ensued, and finally Amandil could hear footsteps approaching them. Blood curdled in his veins, though he was not able to explain very well why. He hugged his knees harder, trying to compress his body in an even smaller space.

Then, just as he thought that he could not be any more scared, a new sound made him freeze. He repressed a startle, as it seemed to come from the same room where he was hiding. It was an inhuman, almost painful sound, like the yelp of a beaten dog but much, much deeper. Amandil cringed, trying to cover his grated ears, but there was no way to escape its penetrating cut.

Letting the lid slide a bit out of place, he ventured a peek outside. What he saw augmented his shock even further: the sparse glow that came through the window fell over Hanni´s crouching silhouette. The horrible howl came from her throat.

A renewed buzz had erupted in the neighbouring room.

"The- the Sacred Wolf!"

"Run! This boy is protected by the Great God!"

"But the King said..."

"Bugger the King! I do not want to die!"

At the third of Hanni´s attempts, their growing agitation degenerated into panic, and running footsteps were lost in the distance.

The silence that fell upon them felt strange and heavy, only broken by Amandil´s gasps. The air in that box of clothes was becoming suffocating, and he tentatively pulled the lid away.

"Hanni?" he asked. The woman was lying on the bed, and she did not answer.

His determination already growing back, the boy stood on his feet to leave his hiding place. As he reached the woman´s side, he studied her features in some worry.

Hanni´s eyes opened wide.

"Come." she said, grabbing him by the clothes and pulling him into the bed. He opened his mouth to protest, but she began to touch his face as if she still had to make sure he was there.

"Stay with me." she ordered, though the voice was so full of urgence that it almost felt like a plea. "Stay here, with me, tonight. Stay with me..."

Amandil had never seen an adult act so upset, except his mother the day that they had taken him away. Not knowing what to say, he nodded in silence, and suffered cold hands to crush him against a swiftly beating heart.


	28. Interlude IV: Doom and Choices

**Interlude: Doom and Choices**

" _King of the City, Lord of Visions, send me an answer."_

Suffocation. The familiar sweet smell, insidiously penetrating his nostrils and bringing tears to his closed eyes. A faint cracking of flames, and then, once more, the silence.

" _King of the City, Lord of Visions, send me an answer."_

He tried to focus in the image of the boy, though the very remembrances were laced with conflict. Those eyes, those innocent, terrible sea-grey eyes. The eyes of the boy he had regretted sparing, back in a distant past; and also of the baby he had regretted killing not long ago, if only he had been allowed to live.

But how could he have lived? Bitterness took him, and with it the will to struggle, and he pulled away from the embrace of the fumes. Immediately, he lay his palms forwards and fell on his fours upon the cold floor, his body racked by a coughing attack. His body was not what it once was, after ruling Númenor for more than ninety years.

That boy, the son of traitors, had been protected by the Great God. Poison had not harmed him, and the assassins had been met by a mysteriously empty bed and the Wolf´s howl. The Lord Melkor had even sent dreams to his highest ranking priest in the Palace, demanding to have Amandil enter his service.

If something could be said about him after so many years of experience, it was that Ar-Gimilzôr was no fool. In all those _prodigies_ he had suspected the hand of Inziladûn, who had grown cunning indeed in his maturity. But then, what difference did it make? If the Eternal King of Númenor turned a blind eye to that apostate´s ill-use of his sacred name, if he allowed his priests to be bribed without bringing ruin upon them –if he refused to send him an answer even now, as he stood before his altar, when he had been so clear and pressing about Gimilzôr´s own grandson, what was he meant to think?

_How was this fair?_ The protector, the guide of the King´s family wanted a heir to the throne to die, and a traitor to live. Why did he refuse his sacrifice? Why did he allow for mercy, now that it was too late for that unfortunate strangled baby?

Ar-Gimilzôr forced himself to find a grip. Gingerly, he reclined his body on one of his sides, fleeing that humiliating pose.

He could not question the God´s will, being, as he was, a short-lived mortal. Who knew the uses that the Eternal King had foreseen for that child? Maybe, in his service, he would grow one day to be a powerful ally of Gimilkhâd and his son Pharazôn, when time came for them to fight for the God´s true Faithful and the heritage of Ar-Adunakhôr. Maybe he would see the truth, and resent his own kin for walking in darkness.

" _Your will be done._ " he whispered, defeated. His voice came out hoarse, and he could barely manage to stand up again to bow to the altar flames. Upon realising that he was finished, the High Priest approached him, as was custom, to leave a basin of water on the floor at his side.

This time, instead of meeting him with silence, Ar-Gimilzôr gestured for him to stay.

"We must talk." he said.

That would be the answer, he told himself in a flash of insight. If the boy could forget the lies of his parents, and willingly be consecrated to him whom they called _Morgoth_ , it would be signal that the King of Kings himself had claimed him. If so, he would be allowed to live- and become a priest of Melkor.

* * * * *

Pharazôn watched the old woman leave from his hiding place behind the column. As the sweeping noise of her robes faded in the shadows, he nodded to himself, and prepared his assault.

The girl was sitting on a small ivory chair in the shade, next to the fountain. She was scribbling or drawing something in a paper, which seemed to absorb all of her attention. Long and lustrous plaits of hair fell down her shoulders, so deeply black that the boy found himself wishing to know if they would shine under the sun.

Making sure that there was no one else in sight, he approached her with determined steps. She did notintimidate him, even though she was so beautiful that her features seemed to have been fashioned by the artist who made the statues of Ashtarte-Uinen. He had heard stories about her, but they had done nothing but augment his curiosity.

_How different could she be from any other girl, anyway?_ She was just his cousin, the daughter of his father´s brother - so his mother had told him.

"Hello." he ventured.

The girl did not answer. Somehow - if this was not impossible-, he would have believed that he had not even heard him or seen him approach, because she continued to paint without the slightest acknowledgement of his presence. He felt suddenly stupid, out of place standing there.

He found that he did not like this feeling at all.

"I am speaking to you!" he said, louder this time. When she still gave no response, he approached her, grabbed the papers and snatched them away from her.

The girl froze. Mournfully, she stared at her empty lap, and he swallowed in alarm, sure from his experience with Ithobal´s daughter that she would now start to wail. But instead of that she raised her eyes, fixing them on his. They were wide and calm, of the brilliant grey colour that he had only seen in paintings of the Sea.

"You came." she mumbled. Pharazôn blinked.

"You knowme?"

The girl nodded.

"I see you often. More than anyone else." she said. "Sometimes it´s good, but sometimes it´s horrible. I have seen you die." she added thoughtfully.

The boy stared at her in shock.

"What are you... talking about?" he asked. His voice came out a little high-pitched, and he closed his mouth again, angry at himself.

_He was an idiot._ He knew about this! His mother had told him, and he would _not_ fall for it. Pointing an accusing finger at her, he gathered his wits back.

"You like to scare people away, don´t you? My mother told me that you have made other girls cry with your stories." Pride inflated his chest. "But I´m not a girl. And I´m _never_ afraid."

It was true enough. Everybody said that same thing about him, since he was a baby and he ventured alone through the dark corridors of the palace. He was not afraid of darkness, of heights or of monsters, and much less of things that were not possible at all.

_Nobody_ could see him die.

The girl stared at him again. Her eyes became laced with an uncomfortable warmth.

"I am not afraid, either." she said, and her lips curved into a small smile. "Not anymore."

Pharazôn grumbled, fidgeting with her papers. What was that supposed to mean?

"What´s your name?" he asked, after a while of more uncomfortableness. "I am Pharazôn, son of Gimilkhâd."

The girl shrugged.

"Which name?"

His hand swept the air in irritation.

"Yours!"

"But I have two." she argued. "And both are mine."

"You can´t have two names." he retorted. " _Nobody_ has two names!"

"Well, I do!" Her voice became shrill for an instant, then went back to its usual low tones. "People call me Zimraphel, but my father calls me Míriel. I do not like it."

Pharazôn thought a little about this.

"I do not like it, either. It... sounds like Elvish stuff, or like some cat´s name."

Her expression became serious.

"It´s the name of a woman who wanted to die."

The boy shrugged. Once again, he had no idea of what she was talking about.

"But then, my father does not like me." she continued, pouting in a charming way. "He keeps me imprisoned here because he does not want anybody to see me. He thinks I am a monster."

Pharazôn stared at her with a frown. He had heard horrible things about the Lord of the Western Wing: that he was a secret expert in Elvish sorcery, a traitor and an enemy of his family, and that the holy smoke of the sacrifices hurt him. Her words should not come as a surprise, and yet they shocked him.

So she _was_ a prisoner, just as he had fancied back when he saw her first! She never went out, not even to feasts or to ceremonies. Never saw anybody but her parents and the old woman. What a terrible life, he thought, feeling pity for her for the first time.

"You are not a monster." he said generously, putting the papers back on her lap. "Just a little strange."

Zimraphel offered him a tremulous smile. Pharazôn was taken aback at her gratitude.

"What are you drawing?" he muttered, wanting to change the subject. He cocked his head to the side to have a glimpse at the topmost paper, and his eyes widened.

The pencil lines were perfect. The shades were perfect, too, like a painting done by a grown-up artist.

"You are good!"

Zimraphel did not nod at the compliment. Hurriedly, she covered the paper with both hands, but not before he was able to distinguish a boy whose features were very alike to hers, with straight black hair and huge grey eyes.

"What´s that? Your twin?" he asked, wondering why she would want to draw a boy that looked like her. She nodded.

"I also see him sometimes."

_Did she have a brother, imprisoned too?_ Pharazôn rubbed his eyes, more and more confused.

Before he could ask her this, however, the sound of sweeping silks warned him of someone else approaching. _The old woman again,_ he thought in fury. Briefly, he pondered staying there to face her, but basic prudence overran that option. He might get Zimraphel in trouble, too. A commander should know when to retreat.

"I have to go." he told her, turning away to leave. Behind him, he heard a whimper.

"No! Do not leave me! Do not leave me, _please_!"

The sound of her voice was so piteous that it made his stomach churn. It brought him instant remembrances of one of the barbarians who had been killed in front of his eyes that year, after he struggled desperately against the man with the knife. Back then, he had had nightmares with that scene –secret nightmares that he had not shared with anyone.

He turned back once again, wondering what to do. Unfortunately, that was the moment that the woman chose to appear through the other door, followed by two ladies-in-waiting. As soon as she spotted him, she raised her arms and screamed.

"An intruder! An intruder! Follow him! We must see his face!"

Pharazôn ran past the columns and the gallery, evading the slow-moving women without difficulty. Any other day, his heart would have been beating in excitement at the chase, but when he finally slowed down in the safety of the mosaic hall, he felt instead like a cowardly deserter.

His forehead creased into a frown, as he remembered her vivid eyes on his. _What if they hurt her now? What if she thought that he had... abandoned her?_

He had to find a way to see her again. Even if he had to brave the vigilance.

As he headed back for the South Wing, the boy had the feeling that his life had somehow become more complicated.


	29. The Fire Altar

His eyes were fixed, stubborn, upon the veins of greyish ore that a capricious hand had drawn upon the floor. He conjured images of the Sea, of the cry of the gulls as they flew past their balcony on the cool sunset hours, but his forehead was burning from the heat of the fire.

He tried to close his eyes, and forget where he was. No matter what he did, however, the soft voice would keep crooning lies in his ears, and evil words that he did not want to hear.

"Those who serve the Lord are the highest among mortals. Only they can achieve true wisdom, be admitted to the divine secrets, and receive the respect and reverence of all the faithful."

Amandil did not answer. The old man´s forehead creased in a frown, as that of the previous old man who had been sent to him, and of several others before that.

"The Lord Melkor is merciful, and the King as well." he continued, now with a slight air of rebuke. "You should be thankful for being chosen."

The boy´s silence was starting to exasperate him. Advancing one step, he grabbed his chin with one hand, and forced his eyes to look into his. He had an unpleasant face, bald and full of wrinkles.

"Well, at least give me an answer, impudent boy!"

"I am not thankful." Amandil muttered, struggling until he was free to look down again. "And _he_ ´s not merciful. He tortured the Elves until they turned into Orcs. Leave me alone!"

He heard an outraged huff, and the sound of robes as the man turned his back on him. A quick prayer was muttered between clenched teeth.

"Alone, indeed! Well, then, be alone! I will be damned if I allow myself to be convinced to deal with one of these... of these Elvish sorcerers ever again!" he cursed. "Their minds are warped from birth. King of Armenelos, may your wrath fall upon this sacrilegious breed!"

Amandil watched him take off, and disappear through one of the two heavily ornated backgates. It was long since he had ceased caring for the people that kept trying to convince him. Horror and fear had been replaced by some kind of dark satisfaction as he saw them leave in anger.

_This could not last forever_ , he told himself, trying to get himself to take heart. At some moment, they would realise that they could not convince him, and leave him alone. He did not care where they took him after that; nothing could be worse than this terrible place.

Amandil´s parents were being held in a city very, very far away. The King had not wanted to listen to him, and Hanni had disappeared without saying goodbye. Even the man who had promised he would protect him had not come back, in the end, but he did not even mind this loneliness anymore. All he really asked now was to be taken back to his small dark chamber in the palace. He wanted to be allowed to curl there, undisturbed, and forget what he had seen that day.

_Please, Lord Manwë, Lady Varda,_ he thought. _Have them bring me back._

"You are not being very wise."

Repressing a grimace, the boy slowly looked up. Instead of the smile of the star-bright goddess of Mother´s tales, however, he met a long, frowning forehead, and a pair of hard grey eyes on the pale and thin face of a man.

He was not nearly as wrinkled as the others. In fact, he could even have passed as young, if it wasn´t because the intensity of his glance gave him the air of authority of an elder. His robes were long and priestly white, heavily folded over his lean body. The curve of his mouth was firm, and the words he spoke were not soft.

"They were not going to send anyone else to waste their words on you. Luckily for you, I... insisted."

Amandil shook his head, surprised in spite of himself at this new approach. Unlike the previous interviews, he graced this man with an immediate reply.

"I do not want to be a... _priest of Morgoth_." he said, hissing the last words as if they were a curse. "So you might as well not waste words on me, and let me leave this horrible place, because that´s the only word I will heed."

"Let you leave?" The man´s features creased in a strange laugh, that looked more like a grimace in his severe face. "That is not a wish I can grant. Not even the High Priest himself could oppose the orders given by the King, and much less a simple priest like me."

At those words, Amandil could not prevent his eyes from glancing up again.

"What does that... mean?"

The laugh was over as quickly as it had begun.

"It means, innocent and ignorant little child, that you will never leave this temple alive. If you do not swear your fealty to the Great God, those soldiers who are at the threshold of the Main Gate, can you see them from here?" A gesture of his hand pointed at the shadows of the four guards who stood at the great gates, still like statues and fully armed, "will be called in by the Great Priest. They will kill you. Then, your remains will be burned, so nobody will know that there has been a death on consecrated grounds."

The boy paled. He shook his head in disbelief.

"You lie!"

"His Holiness had already called them in when I stopped him. He says that it should be over at least some hours before the night services. The smell of cremated flesh can be lingering. You lived in Sor... surely you must have witnessed a fire-sacrifice of an animal at least once."

Amandil swallowed, horrified. Images came unbidden to his mind, of a beautiful turtle-dove writhing in agony, its body in flames, and the pestilent smell before Mother´s protective embrace whisked him away.

"You lie." he repeated, but his voice came out piteously shrill. He covered his ears with his hands and closed his eyes, trying to banish those images away." I am a boy, not an animal. Only... animals are killed." _Mother had told him that, back then, when he had the nightmares._

The man shook his head with lordly impatience.

"Surely you can´t be so dim! The King is afraid of your lineage, and has vowed its destruction. This is why you were brought to Armenelos, and why you were visited by assassins that night in your bedchamber." The remembrances came back with a pang on Amandil´s stomach. _Assassins..._ they had wanted to kill him?

_Was that why Hanni had looked so frightened that night?_

He looked down again, shivering in silence. It was a bad dream. All this was but a bad dream.

"The merciful Melkor sent a vision to the King, telling him that he wanted you spared for his service. This is why you are here... alive. "the priest continued, mercilessly shattering his illusions. "Now, the service of Melkor is not such a serious affair as you might believe. This temple is full of priests who worship money, wine or sinful lust with far more sincerity than they do the god. "at this, he allowed himself a brief gesture of contempt. "He is clearly not a very demanding master, but for _you_ he holds the gift of life in his hands."

He stopped for a moment to fix his eyes on his again.

"You are but a child. You do not know what life is, you do not know what death is. If you let them kill you now, your still imperfect and unfulfilled soul will find little mercy with the Creator, who made you to live until the Doom took you in old age. And you will have eternity to regret your foolishness."

Amandil still did not answer. He wanted to yell. He wanted to cry, and he couldn´t do either thing; he was paralyzed.

The priest turned his back to him, and began to walk towards the door.

"I will do my duty, then. "he said, dryly. "I pity your parents, who will not even have bones to mourn."

Something in the boy snapped. A distant image of Mother´s tear-filled eyes, calling for him as he was carried away caught his mind.

_Forget about us, and live!_

If he died, Mother would be devastated. And Father too, who had told him so many times that he was the hope of their lineage when he grew up. He did not want to make Mother and Father sad... and above all, he did not want to be thrown into the fire like that turtle-dove. Just the idea chilled him to the marrow, and one of those fire-nightmares had always scared him much more than a hundred stories about Morgoth.

So when he saw the man leave, his body was electrified into motion.

"Wait!.... Wait!"

It took more than one shout to stop his inexorable steps towards the gates. For a fearful second the boy thought that it was too late, and anguish gathered at his throat, but finally the priest turned back.

"Well?"

"I will do it!" he yelled, forcing his breath to still. "I will do it, just please don´t call them!"

The priest considered him with an inscrutable frown. Then, he nodded without any visible signal of triumph, and motioned to an attendant that stood in the background.

"A first step to a life of wisdom." he sentenced. The attendant brought him a basin, full of a liquid that looked like water, and a knife. Upon seeing the last item, Amandil retreated again, taking a defensive stance.

"Do not fear." the man told him, walking towards the altar. "I will not harm you. But you must do everything I tell you to do."

Amandil mulled this for a moment, then nodded hesitantly. Step by step, he approached the fire, which burned his cheeks with an unbearable heat. He wanted to stop, but the priest ordered him to approach even further.

_How much would fire hurt?_ He remembered having asked Mother that question once.

Just when he was thinking that flames would start to grow from his body, however, the priest stopped him with a sharp gesture. He told him to kneel and bow three times, just as he did. Amandil obeyed in silence, as he had promised, though great drops of sweat were falling down his forehead.

_He had to be brave._

The priest´s voice chanted a prayer, while he dipped the knife in the water of the basin. Then, he stood up and approached him, and the cold blade touched his cheek.

_Be brave. Be brave._ For Mother, for Father... for himself.

"Stop shaking, or you will get cut." he was rebuked. _It was nothing_. He only wanted to cut a lock of his hair, and that did not hurt. He was so stupid for being afraid.

"See." the man mumbled while he did his work, pointing at the flames with his chin. "You are looking upon the all-consuming, shape-shifting mirror of the Lord´s might. All men bow to His power, which gives life and brings death, be them Númenoreans or barbarians." The lock was finally cut, and he lay it upon Amandil´s hand. "Now, consecrate it, and yourself with it. Throw it into the fire!"

Amandil stared at the fuzzy dark hair on his wet hand. He had come this far. He would not let that funny sensation of being about to do something very bad ruin his determination.

Gathering what seemed like all his strenght, he threw it away. The fire made short work of such a small thing; it disappeared without writhing like the dove. Still, a disagreeable smell reached his nostrils after it was gone, and the flames flared a little stronger, increasing his suffocation.

The priest acquiesced, solemnly.

"See? Now, he has seen your face, too. He has accepted you, thrown the mantle of his protection over you, and made you his servant. "Amandil closed his eyes in renewed fear, wondering if the corrupt Vala would come and take him. But nothing happened, and he opened them again, somewhat relieved. He could not harm him.

_The Valar would not let him._

He was safe now. No demon would carry him away, and no King would throw him into the fire. One day, he would see Mother and Father, and they would be happy to see him alive.

The priest´s hand pressed his shoulder, bony and sharp.

"By the mercy of the Great God, you have been reborn. And so from now own, your name will be Hannimelkor, the Mercy of Melkor."

He could barely nod, busy wiping tears away from his swollen eyes.

* * * * *

"Praised be the King of Armenelos! Your preaching skills will bring great glory to our Temple, if you were able to touch the soul of that fiend!"

The younger priest shook his head in barely concealed irritation, and bowed once to either of his superiors, who sat around the dining table.

"It was not rhetorical abilities what allowed me to touch his soul, as you say." he replied, with rigid modesty. "May I, Your Holiness?" he asked, pointing towards a basin of water. The High Priest nodded absently, and watched as he drew a careful trail over his forehead with dripping fingers.

"Then, what did you say to him, Yehimelkor? He refused each and every one of the priests we sent!"

"I let him know about the fate that awaited him if he refused. In terms that even a fiend would easily understand."

One of the priests, an old man with a balding, grey hair, stared at him in shock.

"You were not allowed to do such a thing!"

Yehimelkor did not blink. Lowering his head, he knelt at the feet of the High Priest.

"If I have done wrong, Your Holiness is entitled to judge my actions." he said. His look held a determined spark that belied any pretence of humility. "But I beg Your Holiness to remember that you were present when I opposed the idea of having the sacred soil of this Temple defiled by a crime. Back then, I said that I would not stand for such a thing, be it an order of the King or the plea of a beggar. If you will forgive me the insolence of the supposition – when your Holiness gave me permission to talk with the boy, you must have known that I would do whatever was in my hands to prevent it from happening."

"Are you insinuating that you disobeyed the royal orders with the connivence of the High Priest?" the old priest frowned. "Your swollen head is in dire need of some cooling, young man! Just because you belong to the line of Indilzar..."

"Enough." The High Priest raised an elegant hand from purple folds, putting an end to the discussion. "Yehimelkor is right in reminding me that I should have been more vigilant. And what is done, is done. Raise and sit on a chair, Yehimelkor."

"But...!"

"The Great God does not withhold his blessings once that he has bestowed them upon someone, which means that the boy is now under our care. Still..."The man´s pleasant face creased with a sudden frown, and he watched Yehimelkor intently as the latter sat down. "I cannot help but... wonder if your family associations had something to do with this, Yehimelkor."

"Indeed!" The old man was quick to jump at the idea. "Melkorbazer, the Fiend´s husband was your grand-uncle, was he not?"

The younger priest shook his head, keeping a rigid composure.

"I have no family outside this Temple. If you believe that I was not ready to become a priest when I took the last oaths, why did you vote for the exception that allowed me to take them eighteen years earlier than the others?"

"I did not..."

"Peace, both of you!" the High Priest intervened again. "We are not doubting your commitment, Yehimelkor. In fact, I doubt there is anyone around who is as committed as you." The younger man bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment. "And yet, you must know that, when it comes to you, there is much more at stake than with any other priest in this Temple. If things go as planned, your royal blood will allow you to wear this purple one day. So the King of Kings knows that I am not to be blamed for worrying."

"Of course not, Your Holiness." the old priest nodded. "The _other_ also was to have succeeded as High Priest before that sad affair happened, if my memory does not fail me. Partiality towards that family was at the root of your kinsman´s undoing."

"If you allow me, Revered Father Mousor," Yehimelkor bowed again. "I do not share your opinion on this."

The High Priest nodded, interested.

"You do not?"

"No. For me, the only thing that ever was at the root of my kinsman´s undoing was the shameful lack of control over his impulses. He could never be brought to suppress his pride, his vain dreams of glory, his desire of bloody conquest. This passionate nature was what made him throw away his teachings, his allegiance to the Great God and to the King and his family´s reputation out of a shameful lust he conceived for a woman. "He made a praying gesture, and raised his eyes. "My Lord, the Eternal King, knows that there is nothing in common between him and me."

"I see. "The High Priest nodded again, this time thoughtfully. "As usual, there is wisdom beyond your years in your words. We will not hold you accountable for what happened today. "The other man made an attempt to protest further, but was silenced with a mild warning look. "I am sure that you must be tired, Yehimelkor. Some rest would do you well."

Understanding this as a dismissal, the priest bowed to Mousor, and knelt before the High Priest once more.

"I am grateful for your concern, Your Highness." he recited. "I request permission to take my leave."

"Granted, granted, of course." was the goodnatured reply. Yehimelkor nodded and left, watched with keen interest by the two senior priests.

"Always a step ahead in everything." the High Priest snorted. "When his time comes, he will completely overshadow me."

"And yet, he is also a... prominent individuality." Mousor grumbled, shaking his head. "I wonder what the future will bring."

"That is impossible for anyone to know except the Great God. Still... I suspect there might be more problems in there than I would be able to handle." the High Priest sentenced after a brief, thoughtful pause. "And he will be there to fight them, for which I am glad."

The other man´s glance grew unfocused, as he stared into the distance and gave his superior a grudging nod.

* * * * *

The altar flames flared, licking his flesh in a surge of burning agony. Amandil choked a scream, and tried to retreat frantically, but bony hands pushed him forwards, towards the source of the pain.

He could not breathe. His lungs were full of a foul smoke that smelled like burning flesh - _his_ flesh. Horror filled him at the thought, and he stared in fear at the fire that would engulf him.

Suddenly, there was a great, booming noise behind his back. Amandil tried to twist his head to look, but before he was able to see anything a mighty force swept him away. Feeling himself grow towards the skies, the boy glanced down, and saw the Temple, the Palace and the city of Armenelos as small colourful dots upon a green land. And then he was free, cradled in a watery embrace that bore him far, far away....

" _Hannimelkor!"_

The boy whimpered, covering his head with the warm sheets of his bed. For a while, he managed the feat of retreating to a new, dark haven of sleep, but the voice was insistent.

"Hannimelkor!"

"Hmmmh." he complained, rubbing his eyes. The walls were full of painted symbols, that looked like crowns of flowers under the dim light of dawn.

Yehimelkor stood upon the doorway. His arms were crossed under the white folds of his robe, and he was staring at him in disapproval. Slowly, Amandil remembered where he was, and sat down with a brusque start, shaking the last traces of sleep away.

"Coming... _Revered Father_." he added, as he remembered further. "Sorry."

The man shook his head and left. Before he had even stepped on the floor yet, the boy could hear the sound of chanted prayers coming from the adjoining room.

Gathering courage, he headed towards the bathroom. As he had feared, and just like the previous day, the water buckets were cold. For a long moment he stood there, wrapped on his warm woollen shawl and wondering what to do. On that grey, early morning, the temptation to procrastinate grew more and more inviting.

But then, it had been the same the previous day, and it was two days since he last washed himself properly. The water would be cold every single morning; one day would have to be the first.

Repressing a grimace, Amandil washed his head first, then the arms and the legs... and finally, his chest. It was not a thorough washing-up, and he did not dare introduce any of his limbs in the water, but he was nonetheless reduced to a shivering mess by the time he was done. Muttering a curse that he had picked up from the other boys, he sought for the comfort of the heavy white robe he had been given to wear, and folded it as tightly as he could around his body. Unfortunately, his dripping black hair would take a longer time to dry.

He would _never_ grow used to that, he told himself by the time he was hungrily picking at his breakfast. Yehimelkor had been right: the Temple was not such a terrible place in itself, and there were no Orcs or Balrogs there. The priests were not so different from the merchants of Sor, and there were lots of boys of his age living with them, just as the merchant´s children that he had sometimes played with. The rooms were nicer than those in the Palace, staying with Yehimelkor was not so terrible as he had been told it would be– though why, oh _, why_ did the man have to wash with cold water?

On the second night that Amandil had spent in the temple, still scared out of his wits by the dreadful experience with the fire, four boys had approached him with unpleasant smiles, and asked him whom would he live with. Any boy who entered the Temple had to live with one of the priests until he pronounced the Fourth Vow- one more of those complicated things-, serve him, and hold him in the highest reverence after the High Priest. Then, they began to mention a lot of priests that Amandil had never heard of, telling him nasty stories about each one of them. To make them stop, Amandil had told them that he had chosen Yehimelkor. They stared at him, dumbfounded, then started to laugh and told him that he was mad.

Yehimelkor, they said, had never been chosen by anyone. To live with him meant spending all nights in prayer, eating once a week, performing painful rituals and –it was rumoured- participating in his dark invocations. Amandil had shaken his head, a bit intimidated but refusing to give in to their words. It was simple enough: Yehimelkor was the only one who had told him the truth, while the others would have let him die. Therefore, he was the only one he trusted, or the one he distrusted less, and it would have to be him.

Besides, it was the only name he knew.

Only to himself, he would admit that when he was taken to his new chambers, the terror he had felt on his first days was about to break to the surface again. He could not believe that he had chosen to spend his life with that Morgoth worshipper who had said horrible things to him as he stood next to the fire. On the first night he had been brought there, his stomach clenched and fell to his feet, and for a moment he thought of escaping.

Yehimelkor, however, had been quite matter-of-factly about it all. He had not tried to bewitch him or drag him to any ritual, though he _did_ spend all his nights muttering in his chambers. Amandil had never seen him sleep, but this, oddly, brought less disquiet than a strange feeling of security. It meant that there was no silent darkness anymore, like there had been in the Palace. Nightmares still came and went, just like before, but now he always awoke to a faint light and a familiar voice in the neighbouring room.

Compared with the fear and incertitude of the previous days, Amandil saw those as an improvement. He missed his parents, but he discovered that the other boys did, too. If they were brave about it, he could not be the only coward. He was not ashamed to be the only one to have nightmares, though - none of those boys had been threatened with being burned.

After he was finished with food, he wiped his mouth carefully, and knelt next to Yehimelkor to join him in prayer. He was supposed to repeat everything that the priest said, but the words were in a devilish Adûnaic that he did not understand. So he just muttered back similar sounds, wondering if they were a spell of some sort.

This went on hour after hour –or so it felt to him anyway- until his knees began to hurt and his head was turning in dizzy circles. Then, Yehimelkor stood up, and he could barely repress a sigh of relief as he followed him to his library.

"Today, you will learn about the creation of the world." the priest said, the first _real_ words that he had addressed to him since the start of the morning. Amandil nodded dutifully, still relishing in the wonderful softness of the chair.

Still, when Yehimelkor began to talk in his vigorous voice, it was all that the boy could do not to get ignominiously lost somewhere around the third sentence. There was something about a humid mud, and something else about darkness, and then a long story with names, and names, and names that he had not heard in his life.

Taken by a poignant longing, Amandil remembered the happy days when Mother taught him, and she smiled proudly when he told her that he had understood. Back then, he had felt so very clever, but now, face to face with that man who shot his unlimited knowledge at him, he felt like an idiot.

"You are not paying attention." Yehimelkor snapped. Amandil shook his head.

"I... do not understand." he confessed.

The priest stared at him. Amandil met his eyes, doing his best not to squirm. A surge of frustration darkened them for a moment, making him tense in alert, but then it was gone, replaced by a resigned look.

With a sigh, Yehimelkor stood up, picked another book from the library, and gave it to him. It was a basic Adûnaic reading method.

Amandil blinked, wondering if he had read the cover right. His mouth opened to ask a question, but Yehimelkor had already picked a dusty scroll that had completely absorbed his attention. Something told him that it would be better if he kept quiet and pretended to be reading.

And yet... it was so _boring_! Aleph, bet, gimel, dalet, he, waw, zayin, het...he had learned all those _ages_ ago. A humiliating thought crossed his mind: maybe Yehimelkor had decided that he _was_ truly anidiot, just because he had not understood the complicated names?

He decided to count the pages of the book, just to see if he was still clever enough to reach the higher numbers quickly. One, two, three... thirteen, fourteen, sixteen... twenty, thirty....

"What are you doing now?" an irritated voice stopped the count. "I gave you that book to read, not to play."

Amandil pursed his lips firmly. It was not his fault that he had been given that baby book!

"I already know how to read." he declared. Yehimelkor did not look impressed, but at least he studied him with some interest.

"Then, why did you not say so?"

Amandil could not think of a reason, so he stayed silent. Yehimelkor sighed again.

"Tell me what you know, then."

"I know how to read and write." The boy began to tick off his fingers. "I have also learned almost all the Elvish letters, though there are more and they are complicated. I can count, and do all kinds of sums. I speak a bit of Quenya. And I know lots of things of the First Age, and the name of _all_ the Valar!"

Just realising that he had probably put his foot in his mouth with the last thing, his enthusiasm was quenched, and he looked down. _Those people did not like the Valar._

But Yehimelkor merely continued his interrogation.

"You speak Quenya? Say something in that language to me."

Amandil thought for a moment, then recited the first phrase of the Valaquenta. _And probably put his foot in his mouth yet again_ , he thought in dismay just as he was done.

For some reason, though, instead of angry, Yehimelkor seemed to grow more and more interested.

"You may be of use, then." he said, in a thoughtful tone. "What I know on the pronunciation of Quenya does not allow me to make much sense of some texts. Especially hymns."

Amandil nodded, feeling a bit less idiot again. That man knew lots of things, everybody said so. If he could be of use to him, then clearly he was not that much of an idiot.

"Then... what do I read?" he asked, hopefully. Yehimelkor considered him for a moment, in which he looked a bit less severe than he usually did.

"We will see how much Quenya you know." he finally stated, standing up to search for a new book.

* * * * *

Every day -and this one was no exception-, Amandil and Yehimelkor parted at lunchtime. Amandil headed for the parlour where all boys ate together, and gossips and whispers were exchanged under the frowning vigilance of a priest. Many of them sneered or stared in disgust as he passed them by, but he ignored them and sat next to the small group next to the pillar. Those had been the first to speak to him after he was admitted into the Temple, and thanks to them, he had learned that their lives were similar to that of the other children, only quieter and with more annoying chores. Back in the state in which he had been back then, fearing for Orcs and creatures of the darkness to appear at each turn of a corner, he had appreciated this information very much. It had been the first day in which he could sleep.

Afterwards, he had the duty to tend to the fire for the afternoon. Bracing himself, he entered the altar that he hated so much, and sat as far from the flames as he could. Two other boys were already there, but Amandil did not know them, so he did not say a word.

Not even five minutes later, one of them was sitting next to him, indiscreetly peering at his face.

"Urgh! Did you see those eyes? And the nose! The boys were right, he really looks like an Elf."

"Go away." he said. For them, the word "Elf" was not a compliment.

Before the boy could answer, his companion approached too, a bit more shyly. Their stares were highly incommodating to Amandil, who stood up and strode away.

"Not an Elf, Abibal. A noble!" this last boy said. Amandil stopped in his tracks, curious in spite of himself. "Nobles have grey eyes."

Abibal turned to him, challenging.

"And how do you know that?"

"I know it because my father was part of the retinue of the house of Forostar in Armenelos." the boy said. "Once, he brought me with him, and I saw the lord of Forostar himself. And he had his same eyes!"

"Did he?" Amandil returned to his place to follow the discussion in silence, but Abibal was not finished with him. "Are you a noble?"

He shrugged nervously, searching for a quick answer. Both boys were looking at him in renewed interest.

"Eh? No, I´m not." he muttered. All of a sudden, he had an idea. "I´m a foreigner, though. I am the son of a rich merchant from Gadir."

"Gadir?" Abibal opened eyes like saucers, as if the mention of such a distant place was more interesting than nobility. His companion, who was cleverer, frowned in confusion.

"Then, what are you doing here? Gadir has the oldest temple of Melkor ever. You could have stayed there."

Amandil bit his lip. He was caught – he really should have started learning how all those things worked by now!

_And yet..._ there was something he had been told the other day....

"I don´t know." he replied. "I think I was brought here because my ancestors were from Armenelos, and my father had conse-crated me when I was born."

To his relief, both boys seemed to take this as an acceptable answer.

"I was consecrated when I was a baby, too." Abibal said with a grumble. "They could have consecrated my brother!"

"Abibal wants to be a soldier." the other added, conversationally. "To serve the Great God is a bit tedious for some things – you have to be _ancient_ and take all six vows before they let you marry or get in the army, and only with permission."

"Really?" Amandil looked up at this, very interested. _Would he be able to get into the army, too?_ "I also want to be a soldier."

The last remains of Abibal´s hostile attitude dissolved with this.

"Do you? There is arms practice in the backyard every afternoon. Ask your Revered Father to let you attend!"

Amandil´s enthusiasm dampened a bit.

"I... well, I do not know if he would allow..."

"Who is he?" the boy asked. The other boy whispered something in his ear that sounded suspiciously like " _Yehimelkor"_ , and both stared at him in shocked compassion.

"He is not that bad." Amandil rushed to inform them, before they could launch into a set of unconfortable questions. "I... eat, sleep at nights, and I am not hurt, or bewitched, or... anything, really. Though he bathes with cold water." he conceded with a grimace. "And I will ask him later, anyway."

"Good luck. "Abibal conceded with a groan, then frowned as he realised something "What´s your name?"

This gave Amandil some pause. The name "Amandil" was already hanging from his lips, and when reason told him that he could not give it to those boys, it made him sad.

"Hannimelkor." he muttered, covering his disgust as best as he could. He would never grow used to that, either. _Never_ , ever.

"Elinoam." the remaining boy introduced himself with a bow.

"Glad to meet you, er, Elinoam, Abibal." Amandil bowed back, encouraged to have two less disgusted stares meeting him in the parlour everyday. "So... you were also consecrated?"

Elinoam shook his head.

"Not me. I was just introduced in the Temple on my eighth birthday."

Amandil looked at him, shocked. That custom of vowing the yet unborn or young babies to the temple whenever someone in the family was very ill or in deep trouble was strange enough. But, doing it of one´s own, free will? He grimaced.

"And why? Why did your father do such a... thing?"

"Why?" Elinoam shrugged, then let go of a loud laugh. "Because there is no better job in all of Númenor, of course! To think you would know, of all people, how much of a privilege this is!" His eyes narrowed. "There was a time when merchants like you or nobodies like me were not accepted. Priests of Melkor can get to command armies and even enter the Court!"

"Ah." Still shocked, Amandil had the good sense not to show it.

_Command armies..._ He found that there was something in the idea that thrilled him, but also something that he disliked. Maybe it was the idea that he would have to stay in the temple until he was _ancient,_ and take all those vows before he could do it at all.

_And he did not want to be a priest of Melkor._ When he was old enough to see for himself, he would leave. Until then, he would make good of his word and survive as best as he could.

"I cannot wait to take my first vow next year." Elinoam mused, dreamily. "My priesthood will truly begin then, and people will bow at me."

"They will not bow at you until your _fourth_ vow, you idiot!" Abibal sneered.

"But I will not be addressed as a mere servant of the temple!"

Amandil looked at them, and slowly nodded. _So that was how it worked, then_... time was the only thing that could grant each of them their wishes now.

He only hoped that it would not take _too_ long.

"You are right." he muttered. "I cannot wait for it, either."


	30. Piercing the Darkness

# 

# Piercing the Darkness

_Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine..._

Amandil held his weapon with tight hands, as drops of sweat fell down his forehead. His lips curved in a small smile: even a couple of weeks ago, he had been already exhausted before he reached those numbers. He was improving.

The back courtyard was desert at this early hour, except for some birds that sang in shrill tones from the palm tree branches. No boy was there to mock or stare at his lonely practice, no adult frowned in vague disgust at the Intruder of the Temple. For a moment, he could just let his body perform the movements that Abibal had taught him, hold this stick, and let his mind wander.

When he had been a little child in Sor, he had often asked Mother for makeshift swords for his mock battles. His chest swollen with bravery and enthusiasm, he had pretended to fight giant spiders, dragons and Balrogs, and sucessively he had been Beren, Túrin and Glorfindel, the great heroes of the First Age.

Now, those imaginations made him smile, with sufficiency but also a small measure of regret. There was no way to go back to those days, when everything was child´s play. If he closed his eyes, it was not glorious battlefields of past ages what he saw anymore, but the future, _his_ future. One day, he would sail to Middle-Earth with the army, to fight Orcs and barbarians and see all countries of the world. There would be no prisons anymore: to be a warrior meant to be on one´s own, and inspire fear on his enemies.

_And none of those priests would be able to hold him back._

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, and sixty thrusts and parries. In a battlefield, Abibal had told him, this would have meant killing loads of enemies, but he had to be careful not to let them creep behind his back. He whirled around to give another thrust, and yelled in enthusiasm.

Something burned in his chest, and it made him so happy to let it go. _Sixty-two, sixty-three_ – his sword was becoming heavier.

Suddenly, absorbed in his task as he was, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps behind his back. _Surely one of the boys._ He decided to ignore him until he left, _sixty-four..._

"Hannimelkor."

The name made him jump; all his visions faded away. Taken out of his pleasant imaginations by a feeling of alarm, he stopped the exercise, and slowly turned back.

Just as he had feared, Yehimelkor stood in the doorway, arms crossed under his robes and still like an intimidating statue. His glare was furious.

Amandil´s spirit sunk to his feet. _What was he doing there?_ He never set a foot out of his quarters in the morning. Maybe someone malicious had wanted to get him in trouble?

_If it had been one of the boys..._

"I..." he began, then stopped, feeling stupid. What on Earth could he say? That man had stated clearly enough that he did not want him to do arms practice, with others _or_ alone. Many times.

_**Way** _ _too many times._

"Come with me." Yehimelkor ordered. Amandil pressed his borrowed sword against his chest, refusing to leave it behind even though he knew that its very sight would make the man´s anger rise. Then, he sighed, and followed him through the corridors, his eyes fixed on the hem of his white robes.

It was difficult to follow the longer strides of the man, who seemed to be taken by an even more pressing impatience than usual. Of course, Amandil thought, swallowing, he had to be furious. He tried to use his time to make up the words he was going to say, but there was no excuse for his behaviour that he could think of.

As they entered Yehimelkor´s quarters and headed for his study room, Amandil remembered, not without some bitter humour, the previous feeling of power and freedom that he had experienced. Here he was now, the mighty warrior - a little boy cowering away!

Ashamed, he took a breath, and made the resolve to at least keep his dignity. Even if Yehimelkor´s eyes were so deep, and penetrated him so intensely.

"I am sorry." he said. Yehimelkor frowned.

"You should not apologise if you would do the same thing again."

This was so direct and obvious that Amandil could not think of a reply. Refusing to look flustered, he put the sword aside, and sat on the floor in front of the priest.

"And you have done the same thing again, over and over. In the last months, this is the third time I have caught you, or heard of you from one of the priests. No matter what measures are taken to prevent it, you still go back to this same" here, his nose was wrinkled in an expression of contempt" _barbaric_ activities, as if they had a stronger hold in your soul than any other consideration. What should I do, then?"

An old, familiar exasperation seeped into Amandil´s heart at those derisive words, ruining his humble mood. Why did that man have to be so difficult about those things? Abibal and the others never had those problems. It was not _fair_!

"May I ask a... question?" Even before Yehimelkor had managed an irritated nod, Amandil continued, gesturing with his hands to drive his point home. "The Lord is a warrior god, too. Many of his priests go to arms practice. The other boys are allowed, why can´t I?"

The priest´s voice was dry and severe.

"There are also priests who _bed_ the boys" he snapped back. "And it means what, exactly?"

Amandil tried to repress his frustration. _That argument, again._ Why didn´t he understand that it wasn´t the same thing?

"But arms practice is not evil!"

"No." Yehimelkor shook his head. "It throws your thoughts into disorder, takes your attention away from your studies, and forms useless passions in your heart without allowing you to focus in perfecting your character."

"But..."

"When you are older, you will do what you wish. But not now." Yehimelkor stood on his feet in an imperious movement, no doubt intending this to be the end of the discussion. Amandil, however, was feeling too argumentative now to let it end so easily, though a rest of prudence yelled at him to drop it and behave with the proper deference.

"When I am older, it will be too late to get properly used to weapons. The Arms Instructor said it!"

Yehimelkor stared at the boy. Amandil needed to gather all of his self-control not to flinch, though he could not prevent himself from retreating a bit.

"You are not a warrior. You are a priest." the priest sentenced. Then, a look that betrayed some tired disgust crossed his face, and he shook his head. "Wars, wars! It seems as if nobody thinks of anything anymore. The Eternal King gave us our land in the shape of an island, protected by a sea whose secrets we are the only ones to know, but this is not enough for the sacrilegious urge for power, that bends the will of the gods for the sake of ambition. Our armies have created so many borders for us in the mainland, so many interests, so many weaknesses! "Once again, his eyes focused on Amandil, who was listening to his tirade in surprise. "The Doom of Númenor will come through one of these wars in the mainland. And you will keep to your studies!"

After a moment of search, he took a huge book from his library. With both of his arms, he carried it across the room, and let it fall on the table with a loud thump, forgetting his careful rules about book-handling for once.

"In two hours, you are demanded at the parlour, to take part in the cleaning activities for the end of summer prayer. You will stay there until night, and they told me that tomorrow you will be needed again." he said. Then, he turned away and left, leaving Amandil alone with the book.

Shaking a dazed feeling away, the boy lifted the animal-skin covers of the volume. A cloud of dust made him cough, and he saw line after line of Adûnaic words written in ancient script. As he managed, with much difficulty, to read some of it, he realised that they were hymns to Melkor, listing all his good deeds towards the Númenoreans, his ridiculous epithets, and his titles.

In renewed dismay, he recalled the lands and countries that he had imagined, back when he waved the sword in front of his eyes. He recalled the freedom he had experienced, far away from the temple, its fires, its prayers and its suffocating rules, only trusting his arm to keep himself safe from whoever would attack him.

Taken by an impulse, he closed the book again, and fled the room. He would ask for extra cleaning duties outside. Anything but stay there for a moment longer, sitting in the dark with that dusty book and dreaming of what he was not allowed to have.

* * * * *

The End of Summer Prayer was one of the most important ceremonies held in the temple of Melkor during the year. With bright-eyed enthusiasm, Elinoam proceeded in the following days to illustrate Amandil about its elements. On the first day, the King and his family would arrive in a public procession, and they would stay at their reserved quarters behind the Temple. Everybody would have to fast – but he should not worry, as the next day, after the Great Ceremony, there would be delicious things and they would be able to take as much as they wanted. Not like the children in the street, who had to stay outside watching them eat.

There would be two ceremonies, one involving only the King and the priests, and the other with all the royal family and the most important people in the kingdom. The young of the Temple were greatly excited about the last one, so much that for the three days that Amandil worked with them polishing the floors and ornating the walls and altars, he rarely heard them speak of anything else.

He was not quite as happy as they were about that whole thing. The King they made such a fuss about was still often in his nightmares, though he had never told anyone about that. Rather than seeing him again, he preferred to flee as far as he could, even if that meant getting in trouble and missing their feast. He doubted that he would be hungry anyway.

Meanwhile, his waning grudge against Yehimelkor had begun to make place for less biased and glowering thoughts. Already on the following morning, he was forced to admit to himself that his own behaviour had been completely against the rules. Nobody talked back to the priests in the Temple, _period_ , even if they did not agree with what they said. Whenever he remembered it, his cheeks went red.

The same day of the procession, he allowed himself to be proud in front of his envious companions as Yehimelkor was designated to bear the bowl of sacred water in the festivities. And later, in their chambers, he extended him a peace offering of sorts, arranging the folds of the priest´s robes as well and solemnly as he could.

This, however, was no obstacle to his plan of taking advantage of the ruckus to flee somewhere quiet and practice with Abibal´s sword. Altars, fire and the King were a dreadful combination that made him sick in the stomach, and brought awful memories that were better buried in a corner of his mind. Yehimelkor would be too busy to catch him again, and the other boys would be on the upper galleries, fighting for a peek from the small, latticed window on top of the altar.

The ceremony had already started when Amandil tiptoed downstairs. Easily evading the few watchers who lingered on the corridors, he headed for the back courtyard again. He wanted to be as far away from those people as possible, at least today. He wanted to feel free again – to _forget_...

As he reached his small sanctuary, however, he froze still. He could hear strange noises, like women voices, and a ringing laugh so close to him that he stared left and right, bewildered. The courtyard was empty.

Wary, Amandil inspected the place. After some observation, he realized that the laughing women had to be behind the stone wall of the back, where there were lush treetops that grew entwined in an impenetrable net. Since he had arrived to the Temple that place had always been empty, so he had never wondered or asked who lived in it.

As he was immersed in those thoughts, he heard the noise of snapping twigs somewhere behind him. He whirled back.

_Nothing._

Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the sun and the distance, and he looked again. This time, he made out a small silhouette perching over the wall, almost at the place where the Temple and the courtyard wall collided. He tightened his grip on the wooden sword, and ran in the direction of the intruder.

The intruder made no effort whatsoever to flee, even when Amandil stopped to take breath right under his feet. It was a boy, who sat comfortably on the wall with his feet dangling down while he chewed on a very appetizing pomegranate. Spilled drops of red liquid stained his cheeks and hands, which seemed to give a golden glow under the sunlight.

Under the stains, the boy was dressed in the richest clothes that Amandil had seen in a long time. They were green silk, embroidered with gold, and his curly, dark-brown hair was held by a cord that looked like plaited gold as well.

After a second of mutual surprise, the boy was the one who reacted first. Swiftly, he picked another fruit from a long and heavy branch that sagged towards the floor of the Temple, and threw it in Amandil´s direction.

"Take it!"

Still astonished, Amandil´s hands reacted to the command, and he let the wooden sword fall to the floor to pick the pomegranate. Cradling it in his hands, he looked up again.

The boy´s lips curved in a smile of self-satisfaction.

"Ha! Now you are guilty, too. You can´t tell on me."

"Tell on you?" Amandil repeated, more puzzled than ever. He also was hungry and thirsty after going without food for a day, so he tore the fruit open and began sucking on it avidly. "Why would I tell on you for? And who are you?"

The boy stared at him.

"I am supposed to be fasting. You, too. You are a priest, aren´t you?"

Amandil shook his head. With the back of his hand, he wiped the juice from his mouth.

"No. I am Hannimelkor, a servant of the temple."

"Ah." The boy nodded, then his eyes took a glint of arrogance. "I am Pharazôn, grandson of the King."

The pomegranate that Amandil was holding fell to the floor with a muted _squish_. A curse, the one that Yehimelkor disliked the most, almost escaped his lips in his shock, but he managed to get a grip on himself.

_Grandson of the King._ It figured. Of all the boys in Armenelos he had to meet with the grandson of the King, in the backyard of the Temple. And this when he was supposed to be fleeing his horrible, hateful grandfather who had wanted to kill him.

Still, if there was something that Amandil did not want in his life, it was more problems. So he sent a quick look in the direction of the other boy, who seemed to be expecting him to look suitably awed, and gave him an awkward bow.

"How do I... call you, then?" he asked, deciding to be practical before everything.

But Pharazôn´s smile was friendly, and nothing at all like Ar-Gimilzôr.

"You may call me by my name." he graciously conceded. "Is that a sword?"

Still a bit dazed, Amandil knelt to pick it up again.

"A practice sword. Like a... wooden stick, but a bit more polished."

Pharazôn looked very impressed.

"Do you practice swordsmanship?"

"I suppose. How did you manage to climb up that wall?"

But the boy seemed too interested by the sword to accept Amandil´s attempts to change the subject. As if he hadn´t even heard his question, he kept looking at the weapon with covetous eyes.

"I want to have a sword and practice arms training, too." he said, frowning. "But my mother says that I am too young for that."

Amandil calculated his height, and the childishness of his features. He was probably younger than him, but not much- a year or two at the most. And yet, he was well aware that the opinion of adults about _when_ was old enough tended to differ.

He shrugged, deciding to speak the truth.

"To be honest, my revered father does not allow me to practice, either. Not my _real_ father, but in the Temple we call them like that." he added, somehow not wanting the two concepts to become muddled. "I come here to do it in secret."

If it could be possible, now Pharazôn looked even more impressed. If one was to judge by his expression, Amandil thought that he had probably just given that Prince ideas that his mother would not appreciate.

"You _taught yourself_?"

Amandil shook his head.

"Another boy, Abibal, goes to arms training, and then teaches me what he has learned. I practice alone."

Pharazôn nodded slowly, as if the sense of those words was laboriously sinking in his brain. Then, his expression changed again, and he frowned in determination as he gave him a commanding look.

"Teach me."

Amandil stared at him, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"Teach me!" the boy repeated. "If you learned this way, I can learn as you did."

"But..." Amandil bit his lip. He could not believe that this was happening. "You have no sword."

"I broke a branch yesterday that has the same shape." Pharazôn replied. Before the other boy could say anything else, he jumped to the floor at the other side, and disappeared from his sight. Amandil heard the sounds of breaking twigs, and then the curly head emerged again from the old, gnawed stone.

"Here it is!" he announced. With great agility, he held the tree branch and let his body slide to the courtyard floor, the promised sword safely pressed against his chest. For a moment, Amandil thought that the branch would break under his weight, but it just made an alarming creaking sound. "Now, teach me!"

In silence, he inspected the weapon. Pharazôn had probably used it to play before, because the sticks and leaves had been carefully pulled off. He tried it several times, and realised that it weighed a little less than required, but who could dissuade the boy now? He was looking at him insistently, not taking well to any delay. _And he was a prince and all..._

Amandil also had to admit to feeling a tiny bit flattered, but that had nothing to do with anything.

"Here, take this stance." he ordered with a shrug.

Once he was set to something, he found that Pharazôn went all the way into it. He did everything he was told, listening to each of his instructions as if they were some kind of divine revelation. Soon, he was already asking for a fight, and Amandil reluctantly obliged.

Without any serious practice, of course, the boy´s skills were almost nonexistant. Basic prudence dictated that he should go easy on a prince who had probably never got hurt in his life, and whose parents could easily have a servant of the Temple killed. And yet, Amandil realised when he took his sword to fight his adversary, prudence had nothing to do with what happened afterwards.

He was prisoner of his own skills, even as he efficiently parried the unexperienced blows of his adversary. He felt powerful, and it was a wonderful sensation, more than anything he had ever experienced when he fought alone. When he had Pharazôn stumble and fall to the ground at his feet, he almost felt the need to laugh in fierce pride – the King might have wanted his head, but his grandson could not even manage to touch him once.

Then, however, Pharazôn stood up, and demanded another round. And after he lost that one, he demanded another, and then another. Amandil´s triumphal and uncharitable mood was slowly changed, in spite of himself, by his persistence. He felt a dawning respect towards his opponent.

In the end, he had to be the one to say that he was tired and that he could not fight anymore- he did not want to keep this going on any longer. There was already a bruise on the young boy´s cheek, and another on his left arm, but in spite of this, his enthusiasm was completely undimmed.

"I want you to be my teacher." he solemnly declared. Amandil shook his head, still panting.

"That´s impossible. I cannot leave the Temple."

Once again, Pharazôn´s eyes showed that he had rarely been crossed in his life.

"I will come here several times a year. There are lots of ceremonies, and now I am old enough to go to them. Whenever I am here for one, I will come to this place, and you will wait for me."

Amandil cautiously nodded.

_Why not?_ He remembered the look in his eyes as he repressed a groan of pain and stood up after receiving a blow to his left arm – that had impressed him.

He would _never_ set feet on the Palace again, though.

"You should convince your mother to let you have some classes in-between." he reccomended. "Otherwise, I will always beat you."

Pharazôn shook his head proudly.

"Next time _, I_ will beat you." He took a long breath, then turned towards Amandil "One day, I will be the greatest warrior king that Númenor has ever known, and I will conquer the world. You can be in my army, if you want." he offered after a moment of thought.

Amandil frowned in renewed surprise.

" _King_? You are going to be King?"

Pharazôn bathed in his shock, taking it for simple admiration.

"My mother told me I would. She knows everything."

As he digested those puzzling news, a thought slipped insidiously into Amandil´s mind, and he wondered what Yehimelkor would say of Pharazôn´s plans. He chuckled, imagining the priest´s fuming ires at such a crime against the God´s will.

To him, though, the plan seemed as good as any.

"Thank you." he said. "I would like that very much."

This brief moment of understanding was broken by the sound of a woman´s voice. Amandil´s ears perked up, and then he heard it calling Pharazôn´s name.

The other boy stood up, frowning.

"Stupid women! They will not leave me alone for a minute!" he grumbled. "There, now I have to leave. I do not want them to discover my secret passage."

The _secret passage_ in question was more like a very risky climb up a wall, with the only help of a tree branch that seemed more ready to crack at each passing moment. Amandil watched him go up in some anxiety, but relaxed when he realised that Pharazôn had no problem.

"Wait for me the next time!" the prince reminded him before the jump. Amandil nodded to the wall.

_If anyone should learn of what had just happened there, they would not believe him._

"I will." he promised. Then, he blinked and turned back, feeling, all of a sudden, strangely alone in the empty courtyard.


	31. Weaving Threads

Hi people! This is the end of the fifth arc, which has lasted more than any other because of the long hiatus. I hope you have enjoyed it, and will look forward to the start of the sixth, which will take place years afterwards. But this time you won´t have to wait that long, that´s a promise.

Meanwhile, I have posted a forum thread at HASA, which can be found here: [http://www.henneth-annun.net/forums/messages.cfm?confID=0&forumID=927&messageID=53998](http://astele.co.uk/forums/messages.cfm?confID=0&forumID=927&messageID=53998)

If you have any reviews, comments, suggestions or complaints about this fic, you are welcome to post them there -or here, using the review function. We authors have a little author heart, and want to know what people think of our fiction. :)

 

 

# Weaving Threads

 

 

"My lady?"

The Princess of the South sat on her porch, protected from the sunrays by the twisted boughs of a vine tree. Chestnut tresses fell freely down her back, as she let the warm breeze dry the golden dye of her upper locks.

"Yes?" she asked, in a deep, sleepy voice. The woman advanced a few steps and bowed in front of her, letting the folds of her dress fall at both sides. Her hand was holding a folded piece of paper, humid from her sweat.

"The Lady of the Keys gave me this letter for you. She told me a strange story about it: according to her, a beautiful girl asked one of the women to give it to your son."

Melkyelid frowned, and extended a hand imperiously.

"Give it to me, Mehedya."

The woman obeyed, a small, amused smile dancing in her lips. As Melkyelid unfolded it, her eyes fell on a message, written in small and spidery letters. She cleared her throat.

"To the prince Pharazôn, greetings. I have dreamed of you again..." she began, then stopped. Her eyes widened. "What is this?"

Mehedya shook her head.

"I do not know, my lady."

Melkyelid stared at her in incredulity, and after a while she saw her fingers start to fidget with the golden hems of her dress.

"You have read it already." she stated. "Oh, I know of your curiosity."

"I am sorry, my lady."

The Princess dismissed her apology with a casual wave of her hand.

"Images of you plagued my mind day and night, and I had to draw you to get rid of them. "she continued reading. "Now, I feel alone and empty. Why have you abandoned me? If you are afraid of the people who watch over me, we can meet in the corridor that stretches past the Great Western Hall. There is an empty room there, and I know how to steal the key. Wait for me in the early hours of the afternoon; there is no one around then. The Princess Zimraphel... "Her voice trailed away, and she looked at the paper with increasing surprise. "Why... if this is...!"

Mehedya allowed herself a rippling laugh.

"Now, this is something that would have read alarming enough, had they been a dozen years older! My, my." She affected to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. "The prince is a handsome and precocious boy, but who could have imagined that he would take the Western Wing by assault and start breaking the heart of maidens? Not I, indeed."

Melkyelid did not smile. Instead, she focused in the message, which she reread several times with a thoughtful frown.

"If there is someone being... precocious here, I am sure it is not my son." she muttered. Mehedya forced her tone to become solemn.

"Of course, my lady. That girl... the daughter of the Prince of Númenor... is not what anyone would call a normal child. I wonder in which circumstances did those two meet. "Her countenance perked up once again. "In any case, this is nothing we cannot be informed of. Shall I summon the little scoundrel here, so you may ask for explanations?"

Melkyelid threw a last glance in the direction of the girl´s lively script, wondering at the tiny, tense fingers which had written it. Then, she folded it again, and held her back with a movement of her hand.

"On the contrary, you are going to give this back to the servant who received it. Who will give it to my son, as our young maiden intended."

"And then you will have him followed." the lady-in-waiting guessed. "A clever plan."

Princess Melkyelid bit her lip in annoyance.

"Do you think that I need to spy on my son?" she asked, with a proud frown. "Know that I do not need any underhanded methods to be aware of his wishes and desires."

Mehedya shook her head

"And yet he is hiding from us."

"Not yet. Not yet." the Princess repeated, in a lower, more thoughtful voice. Then, she gave back the paper, and gestured with her chin. "Go. I would not want him to miss his little appointment."

The woman seemed about to add something else, but a quick assessment of her lady´s mood convinced her to swallow her words. Lowering her head in a bow, she left without further discussion.

As soon as she crossed the threshold of the porch, Melkyelid´s frown returned. She stared at the vine branches above her head, muttering a name with her beautiful lips.

" _Too soon._ " she said, with the smallest sigh of regret. A small, speckled bird with an orange chest fluttered among the leaves, searching for its nest. " _My Queen, my Lady, isn´t it yet too soon?"_

* * * * *

"See?" The boy stared at him proudly, trying to hide his gasps for breath as both wiped the sweat from their foreheads. "I told you that it wouldn´t be so easy for you anymore."

Amandil nodded, impressed in spite of himself. His arm stung, and he knew that he was sporting a growing bruise under his white robes.

"So you took lessons, after all."

Pharazôn shook his head.

"I practiced on my own, just like you." After a moment of thought, however, honesty took the better of his determination, and he blushed. "Well, all right... I convinced the armsmaster of Lord Zakarbal´s household to correct my stances a bit. He asked for the person who had taught them to me, and he was impressed."

"Huh?" Amandil frowned. Pharazôn looked at him in newfound appreciation.

"He said that they were good."

"Did he? Well... I cannot be so good if I let you hit me." the Temple servant grumbled, a bit embarrassed. The last thing he wanted was for a courtier to ask inconvenient questions about him.

"Of course I hit you." Pharazôn protested, furrowing his brow. "Mother predicted I would be the greatest warrior in this land one day."

Amandil was about to make an unpleasant comment about mothers being partial about their sons, but he finally chose not to open his mouth. Pharazôn was his friend, no matter how naive and spoiled he could sometimes sound like. It was not his fault that he had a family and a whole army of courtiers fawning over him.

"A warrior king." he muttered, thoughtfully, remembering what the boy had said to him on their first encounter. _Would he be the one who would free his family, as Father had said?_

"And you? Are you going to be a warrior priest when you grow up?"

Amandil bit his lip, and reflected on this. To be a priest wasn´t among his future prospects, but it was prudent not to let anybody know about that.

"I suppose." he shrugged.

"Why?" Pharazôn insisted. Amandil stared at him in surprise.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because Mother told me one day that all true warriors must aim for greatness. Do you aim for greatness, Hannimelkor?" the Prince asked. "I do."

The older boy wrinkled his nose. _Greatness is for kings._ he thought _._

"I am sure you´ll be great for both of us." he finally said, but there was no hint of mockery in his voice. "After all, I´m the one who is teaching the King to fight."

Pharazôn nodded, proudly.

"The day I have Sauron at my feet begging for mercy, I will tell him that my swordsmanship is the work of Hannimelkor of Armenelos, the most skilled warrior in Númenor after myself!"

Amandil snorted. The ego of a prince really knew no boundaries.

"You have not even defeated me yet."

Pharazôn grabbed his sword, and waved it in the air with ferocious movements.

"Then, let us fight again!"

"Are you rested?" Amandil asked, doubtfully. The younger boy gave him a cheeky shrug.

"Are you tired?" he retorted at him. Amandil growled, and fell back into a stance.

_Fine, then. No fooling around anymore._ He would not go easy this time.

Both wooden swords crashed in mid-air with a sharp noise. The boys fell back, panting as they studied each other´s movements.

"Take this!" Pharazôn yelled. Amandil blocked his thrust easily.

"Do not tell the enemy what you´re going to do!" he scolded. As if to underline his words, his own thrust came from an unexpected angle, a move that Abibal had recently taught him –and which had allowed him, once perfected, to defeat the bigger boy.

Pharazôn clenched his teeth to repress a hiss of pain as the wood connected with his hip. He stumbled a bit, but managed to regain his footing quickly enough. _Where did he get that impressive endurance from?_

As Amandil waited for him, a different noise reached his ears from behind his back. Whirling around, his glance met the white face of a priest, who was staring at them in astonishment from the courtyard gate. His hands carried a roll of ritual cloth.

Next to him, Pharazôn´s movements also froze to a halt. Keeping his aplomb, the Prince advanced a couple of steps, and sized the man up with a determined look.

"He did not defeat me yet." he assured him, tightening the grip of his fingers on the makeshift sword hilt.

* * * * *

"Do you know what you just did?"

Amandil kept his eyes religiously fixed on the floor patterns, still like a statue under the scrutiny. The High Priest´s voice was calm - soft, even, and yet the boy was not foolish enough as to try to breathe a word in his presence.

Besides, anything he could say would only make the situation worse.

"You attacked – you hurt the grandson of the King." the voice continued. "Have you an idea of how serious this is?"

The boy heard the sound of footsteps behind his back, and then the rustle of heavy robes as Yehimelkor knelt at his side. He ventured a brief look at his face from the corner of his eyes, forcing himself to be brave and keep his composure. Deep inside, however, he was positively screaming for help. _Please_ , let him not be furious. If he decided to wash his hands on him now... he shuddered to think of what would happen.

"Will you defend his foolishness, Yehimelkor?"

The priest bowed respectfully.

"Your Holiness, it is well known to you that I will never _defend_ mindless fighting." he said, sending an ominous look in the boy´s direction. Amandil swallowed. "I do have to say, however, that I do not think that this child is any more guilty than the prince in this issue. As it seems, they were practicing swordmanship like friends, and he had been asked, if not ordered, to teach the son of Prince Gimilkhâd."

The High Priest thought about this for a moment.

"What you say may be true, but he was still careless. Compared to the life of a child of the royal family, his own is worth little. He should have thought about it before."

"He rarely _thinks_ about anything, Your Holiness." Yehimelkor sneered. "And yet, he was chosen by Melkor, so his life is as much under the Lord´s protection as that of the prince."

Amandil felt his chest burst in gratitude at those words. If he got out of this unscathed, he thought, he would always respect the man, and never, ever do anything against his wishes again.

"So what?" The High Priest frowned, and his eyes bore upon him. "What is your opinion? Should this Temple surrender the boy to the prince´s family so they can obtain their revenge?" he sighed, oblivious, it seemed, to the sudden pallor in Amandil´s face. Surrendering his stoic pretence at last, he sent a terrified glance in Yehimelkor´s direction.

Images that he thought he had left behind forever fought to enter his agitated mind again. The defiance that he had been mustering for all that time left him in a rush. He saw the fire once more, and the King´s cold eyes passing through him as if he was nothing but dirt in front of his eyes.

He shivered. _No!_

Yehimelkor´s eyes became hard.

"My opinion is that it would be a grievous error, Your Holiness."

"Explain yourself."

"I will." The priest bowed again. "For many years, we have kept our position carefully balanced with that of the Kings. We are the Great God´s chosen servants, keepers of the holy rites and interpreters of his wishes. Much depends on this state of things, as you well know. "The High Priest nodded slowly to each of his words. "But since Ar-Gimilzôr took the Sceptre, this balance has become more... tenuous than ever. The Kings have always had the right to share in our ceremonies, but none of his ancestors had been so intent on it as he is now. In the last years, he has taken over many of our duties with great zeal, and some have been dreading that he intends to proclaim himself the only keeper of the wisdom of the Lord. This will imperil the influence of this Temple and that of his High Priest."

Amandil listened to this torrent, half-dazed. A part of him wondered what could be the relationship with the issue at hand, but the High Priest seemed to be interested on it anyway. So much that he seemed to have even forgotten about his presence.

"I see."

"If you humble yourself in front of him, everybody will think you weak, and you will have less power. We must keep our dignity, and protect it at all costs. It is the only way."

The High Priest arched an eyebrow.

"Do you think me weak, Yehimelkor?"

Amandil wondered if there could be some sort of dangerous edge to this question. His tone sounded only mildly interested.

Yehimelkor shook his head.

"I do not, Your Holiness."

The High Priest´s lips curved into a smile.

"Then, there is only one way, indeed. You may retire."

"My deepest thanks to Your Holiness."

Still bewildered at the strange exchange that had just taken place, Amandil reacted to the man´s bony touch upon his shoulders, and struggled to his feet to follow him.

As he crossed the threshold of the High Audience Chamber, he felt the knot in his throat dissolve at last.

"What will.... happen to me, then?" he asked in a whisper, needing and dreading the confirmation at the same time. Yehimelkor stopped in his tracks and turned back to measure him up with an annoyed glance.

"You have been caught disobeying my orders on weapons _yet again_. This makes seven times, Hannimelkor. Seven. Sometimes I still wonder if you do understand Adûnaic like everybody else."

Amandil lowered his face, humbly.

"I am sorry."

"You will not step outside your room for ten days. Maybe this will stop your frenzied activity enough as to allow for a bit of reflection."

Amandil pondered this briefly, then nodded.Had it been twenty days, or forty, right now he could not have brought himself to care.As the realisation that he was, indeed, saved, crashed into his mind, he felt a wave of gratitude fill him until he was about to burst.

"Thank you. I mean... "he rectified, not sure of what he was supposed to say. "I am sorry. I will not do it anymore."

Yehimelkor snorted.

"Short is the memory of a mindless young boy." Turning back again, he continued his way through the corridors, and Amandil followed him in silence.

As they were already reaching their chambers, Yehimelkor spoke again.

"Your closeness to the prince Pharazôn worries me, Hannimelkor." Amandil blinked in surprise. "I trust that you remember who wanted to kill you back then."

The boy shook his head.

"I remember." he said in a hoarse voice. "But he... he is nothing like that. He is... a friend. We were not fighting, it´s all... well, practice. We _like_ each other."

_As nobody else had liked him there_ , he thought, somewhat bitterly, but he kept that last thought to himself. It would not do to complain to the priest about that.

Yehimelkor, however, looked at him with a strange, surprised expression in his face. Amandil thought he could even distinguish a brief flicker of pity in his eyes, but it was gone before he could wonder.

"This is all well. But you must be careful. Your impulsive nature might still get you killed." he grumbled. The boy nodded at this, without much difficulty. A selfish part of himself was exultant and relieved at the fact that he had not been forbidden from seeing his friend.

"I will be careful." he promised solemnly.

* * * * *

"Why did you have to make such a fuss?" Pharazôn stood on the glazed tiles of the Prince of the South´s chambers, his golden frown fixed on his father in anger . "He will not want to teach me anymore!"

Gimilkhâd´s features were tense, and he stared into the palms of his hands. His voice came out with a hissing sound, as if he was speaking between his teeth.

"This is just as well, then, because you will _not_ see him again."

The boy´s outrage flared up in a rush.

"Why?"

"Because he is dangerous." his father replied. Then, he continued in a lower, if not less stressed tone. "I do not want to speak further on this subject."

Pharazôn glared, putting his hands on his hips.

"Then do not speak about it! But you will never stop me from seeing him!"

"What?" Gimilkhâd looked at him, livid.

"He is my friend!"

Several attempts to form words became tangled and stuck in the prince´s mouth, and for a moment he sat, opening and closing it and breathing heavily. Undaunted, the boy withstood his glance.

"Well, I do not... I do not _allow_ you to be his friend!"

"I am his friend already!" the boy replied, yelling back. "You can´t do anything about that!"

"How dare you talk like this to your father!"

Pharazôn lifted his chin in a disdainful gesture.

"I am the future King! You cannot order me around!"

Whirling round, he gave his back to Gimilkhâd and stormed out of the room. Everything around him became blurred, and he almost crashed against a long-robed figure who stood in the corridor, quietly waiting for him.

"My son." Melkyelid scolded in a fond voice, stopping his mad rush with her hand. Pharazôn looked up at her, and blinked furiously as she knelt in front of him and the hand caressed his chin. He _never_ cried. "Is this the look you gave your father?"

The boy bit his lip, trying to break free.

"If you are going to side with him, leave me alone!"

The Princess´s features hardened.

"Insolence towards your father is one thing. But your mother gave birth to you, and the Lady in Heaven will punish you if you ever treat her disrespectfully." Seeing his anger cool down at those words, her lips curved in another loving smile. "Tell me what happened, my child. I will help you."

For a while, Pharazôn considered her in silence, his determination battling with need. As always, his pride eventually surrendered to that beautiful face that promised him a solution for everything that troubled him. He swallowed.

"He... told me I couldn´t be friends with Hannimelkor. He says that he´s dangerous, but that´s not true! He was teaching me swordsmanship. He´s very good at it... and he´s my friend!"

Melkyelid nodded attentively.

"I understand." One of her long tresses, brilliant with perfumed oil, fell over her shoulder, and she pushed it back. "Still, you must know that your father has his reasons. Do you know who your friend Hannimelkor really is?"

Pharazôn frowned.

"Who?"

"He is the only heir of the former lords of Andúnië." she whispered softly in his ear. "That was why the King forced him to become a priest, or be killed."

The boy´s eyes widened.

"The traitors?" he mouthed in shock. "But... how´s that possible? That happened before I was born!"

"Of course, my son. He was born in exile, from outlawed parents. He has no name and no honour, and a clouded destiny."

The boy lowered his glance, reflecting on this. His brows began to knit in a frown, but his mother´s keen eyes also perceived a glint of awe in the corner of his eye. She laid a hand over his shoulders, and smiled.

"This does not deter you, I see."

Pharazôn shook his head.

"I... were they really going to _kill_ him?"

Melkyelid nodded.

"Miraculously, he managed to wriggle himself out from all threats. Your friend has lived through more than you can imagine, son. Maybe that is why he is a better warrior." she muttered in a lower, more thoughtful tone. Her son stared at her, now in open fascination.

Upon noticing his expression, she broke in a ringing fit of laughter.

"Why? You still want to be his friend?"

Pharazôn pursed his lips in determination.

"I do." he stated. "If... if he was an evil Elf-friend, he would not be a priest of Melkor, would he? Melkor wouldn´t have chosen him!" he added in flawless logic. Melkyelid laughed again.

"Indeed, he would not! You are wise, my son." Her hand caressed his rebellious curls, and the soft fabric of her long sleeve touched his face, leaving a perfumed trail in its wake. "I will help you, as I promised. But there is one condition."

"What condition?"

The Princess´s features sobered for a moment.

"You will offer your apologies to your father."

Pharazôn´s features tightened in surprise, then creased in distaste.

"But...!"

Melkyelid raised her hand, interrupting her son´s budding protest.

"I will need to work, lengthly and tirelessly, in order to fulfill your wishes. If you do not do my bidding, and apologise to your father, you will make things even more difficult for me. "She sighed, reproachfully. "Would you do that, my son? Would you scatter hardships in my way, when I am labouring for your sake?"

The strength of the boy´s denial was quenched by those words. Somewhat ashamed, he stared down in painful hesitation, and Melkyelid smiled.

"I knew you would not." Gracefully she stood up, in a soft rustle of colourful silks, and took his hand in hers. "You and I, my son, will forever be allies."

Pharazôn stared at her in grave silence. Inside him, there were some emotions in conflict, but he was not skilled at considering them and determining their nature. So he merely stood there, and nodded dutifully to his mother.

She would put everything in order. She always did.

_But one day, he would not need her help anymore._

* * * * *

When Melkyelid entered the Prince´s chambers, she found him sitting in front of an ivory table, looking into a glass of wine with a stormy frown. She approached him with her soft steps, and cautiously sat at his side.

A long and uncomfortable silence followed.

"Has our son displeased you?" she finally asked, touching his arm with delicate fingers. He shook himself away ill-temperedly, and glared at her.

"A nice piece of work, indeed, is what you have you made out of him!" he hissed. "You and your... accursed airs! Since the very day he was born, you have always spoken of him as if he was a king, a deliverer, a _god_ , instead of a mere child. And now, look at the results. He does not even respect his father!"

Melkyelid weathered the storm in silence. As Gimilkhâd made a pause to drink, she opened her mouth to reply, but he interrupted her again.

"And this is not the worst. Oh, no, you have even infected _me_ with your overblown beliefs! He is standing there, in front of me, opposing my will, and I cannot _even_ bring myself to open my mouth! "His words died in a humiliated, half-drunken groan. Muttering something, he emptied the cup, and allowed his glance to trail sourly over the distance.

The princess lowered her eyes in regret.

"Great is the weakness of a mother." she admitted. "I beg you to forgive me."

He did not answer.

"He was taken by his impulsive nature, and now he regrets it deeply. "she continued. "He only wishes to apologise to you."

"Apologise?" he snorted in disbelief. Still, his haughtiness also seemed a little surprised, if not mollified. "So he wants to apologise, now? The _nerve_...!"

"We never know to which purpose do the gods govern the impulses of a young boy." she added, furrowing her brow. "His friendship with this Hannimelkor..."

"His name is _Amandil_." Gimilkhâd cut her. "And I do not want to discuss him."

"I am sorry." she said, "but what if...?"

"Enough!" he yelled. "I said I would not discuss him!"

Melkyelid stood up. Her chair made a loud noise as it was dragged back across the floor, causing Gimilkhâd to look up sharply, but she simply joined hands over the robes that hung in heavy folds over her stomach.

"Excuse me. " she began. "Since the day I was born in Gadir, the Goddess bestowed all her blessings on me, welcomed and nurtured me as her only and most beloved child. She taught me the many paths and ways of her service, and I laid my heart and soul at her feet. She gave me a brilliant future, wove it into my dreams, and wrote it in the stars." Her husband, taken out from his drunken sulk by shock, studied her in quiet astonishment. She withstood his glance, and continued her passionate speech. "When my son was born, I took all the favours, all the joys that the Lady had destined for me, and heaped them upon his head. Both our fortunes are his, and this is why I know that he will be King and that no evil will ever be able to touch him. The Goddess guides his every step towards his destiny, and I am a mere servant to her will." Her eyes narrowed in determination. "It was not by mere chance, or ill luck, that he met the heir of Andúnië, I know this. So _please_ , listen to me. Help me to reach an understanding of her message, for us and our son´s sake!."

The uncomprehending expression became more and more pronounced in Gimilkhâd´s features as he listened to his wife. He shook his head, confused.

"Help you? What message?"

Melkyelid smiled, encouraged, and looked down with a blush.

"I... am a woman, and I know little about politics. My only knowledge comes from the times when you have chosen to share your problems with me. And yet... there is one thing that is obvious to all those who live in this Palace, even the serving girls. Your brother, the Prince of Númenor, will one day be King."

Her husband nodded, reluctantly.

"And once that he does... would he not want to restore the traitors –may the Doom take them!- to their former honours?"

Gimilkhâd frowned in deep distaste at the question.

"He probably will." he finally muttered, with a grimace. "He is a traitor, himself. My father..." His voice trailed away, then he shook his head as if to chase a dark thought. "Only his blood protected him from suffering their same fate back then."

Melkyelid wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"And... do you think they would hold a seat in the Council? After having been pronounced traitors to Númenor?"

"The day my brother has his way... yes. They will try to rule through him." her husband explained. "Luckily, our supporters are a majority in Númenor, and we will not let them do as they please."

The Princess smiled.

"That sounds reassuring. Still..." She frowned again. "I have lived in this Palace for long, and heard things. Sometimes, I cannot help but wonder how many of those supporters are _really_ loyal." Gimilkhâd looked about to protest, but she quickly continued before he could speak. "Oh, I do not mean that they are traitors. But when there is civil strife, many people survive by following the flow of the tide and weathering the storm. Now that your father is king, they are with him, but will they be _against_ your brother once they see him holding the Sceptre? Will they rise and fight their King, even if they are against his policies?"

Gimilkhâd sought for the wine jar, and filled his cup again. For a while, an uncomfortable silence reigned in the chamber.

"Go on." he said at last, surprisingly quiet. "What are you trying to get at?"

"I think that Amandil, future Lord of Andúnië, may be one of our greatest allies in years to come." she complied. "And that this is the splendid gift of the Lady of Storms to our son."

Then, before her astonished husband could come up with an answer, she bent her head in a parting bow, gathered the folds of her dress in her hands, and discreetly left him to ponder her words.


	32. Amalket and Zimraphel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the beginning of the sixth arc. Any comments, suggestions, complaints... just click on the box and send them all!

**Note:** And this is the beginning of the sixth arc. Any comments, suggestions, complaints... just click on the box and send them all!

**Warnings:** Sex.

 

 

 

 

A slight drizzle was falling as Amandil left the Temple, and the dark clouds that loomed over Armenelos had sped the arrival of the spring night. Grumbling something, he threw his hood over his head, and fixed his glance on the puddles that were starting to form over the stone pavement.

Even the sky seemed determined to make him behave like a good novice, he thought, with a kind of irony. It forced him to bow his head and look down.

At least Yehimelkor should be busy enough now with the April night vigils. Amandil, who had known him for all those years, was aware that the priest disliked to be taken away from his private contemplation to take part in such things, though he would never have said as much in words. It was a gift for his pupil in any case, for it enabled him to leave their retreat and seek Amalket in the busy centre of Armenelos.

Unfortunately, Pharazôn had learned of his free night through an indiscretion of his own, and had wasted no time inviting him to one of those parties where there were always many guards of the Palace and courtesans, and everybody ended either in bed or drunk. None of those two options seemed acceptable if he was to seek herafterwards, but he wondered if he would be able to escape unscathed.

The inn was not far from the Palace, and barely two streets away from the quarters of the guards. Amandil took away his drenched hood, passing a hand through his forehead, and addressed the innkeeper. There were some things about Pharazôn that he would never wholly understand, he thought as he checked the look of the place and the groups of people who drank in the corners. How, having been born in the Palace, he could enjoy cheap inns that would have even given Amandil pause was one of them.

The man bowed obsequiously to him, and asked him to follow. As soon as they set foot on the backyard – a little square with a well and no pavement that was already beginning to ressemble a mire-, the sound of loud male shouts and strident female laughter reached his ears. When the man threw the door of the private chamber open, the sight almost made him wince. Few steps away from the threshold, a man, heavily loaded with drink by the look of his face, was kissing a giggling woman upon the floor.

_Now, that was quick._

"Alas, much have I missed!" he remarked sarcastically, as the door was closed behind his back. Pharazôn lifted his eyes at the sound of his voice, interrupting the animated conversation that he was having with his guests behind a low table full of empty jars. His golden brow was crowned with a makeshift circlet of branches, which, together with his mantle of royal purple, made him stand out from the crowd. The brown curls of his head had already begun to look dishevelled, and the red in his cheeks told Amandil that he had also drunk his share.

"You are late!" he scolded merrily. "Come and sit with me!"

Amandil strode towards the crowded space, just as some of the men began to push back to leave room for him among great confusion. Finally, one of them stood up and vacated his place at the old stool, and sat on the floor next to a companion. A courtesan followed suit, arranging her expensive robes over the dirty planks with a surly look.

"His robes are wet." said a young man in an elegant outfit who sat at Pharazôn´s other side, wrinkling his nose. Amandil recognised him at once: it was Pummyaton, the son of the foster brother of Pharazôn´s father. That courtier had never seemed to like him much, probably out of jealousy.

Pharazôn, of course, was always oblivious enough to make things worse. Ignoring him, he focused on his newly arrived friend, and lay an arm over his shoulders.

"Do you know what?" he told him with a grin. Amandil shook his head, slowly getting used to the heat and the smell of wine. "Ibal, of the Gate Guards, brought his brother to meet us today. His name is Setbal, and he is the man who is sitting next to you. Isn´t he impressive?" A man of about thirty or forty, with dark skin and serious eyes, bowed at this introduction of sorts. The width of his shoulders was indeed impressive, and there was a long scar in his cheek. "He is stationed in Sor right now, but until last year he was a soldier in Umbar!"

The delight in Pharazôn´s voice was evident. Amandil nodded, interested.

"He was telling us about the last campaign..."

"Oh, that was no campaign! "the man protested. "Just a few skirmishes..."

The young novice of Melkor did not miss the collision of Ibal´s elbow with his brother´s ribs. It was well known by everyone that tales and talk of battles never failed to kindle a bright fire in the prince´s eyes, and that any man who had ever wielded a sword was sure to gain access to him. One day, it was rumoured, Pharazôn would be the first member of the royal family since Ar-Adunakhôr who would not stay content with a life of leisure in the peaceful island.

"The desert tribes assaulted a post that was closest to Umbar, and killed the people who lived there." Pharazôn continued, ignoring them. Then, he tried to drink, and realised that his cup was empty. "What? This is a shame! Who has decided that I should go without wine?"

One of the courtesans, a beautiful woman with golden ribbons in her tresses, waded through the other guests with a jar in her hands. Amandil admired the skill with which she prevented it from falling to the floor in several ocassions, even when one of the merry drunkards pulled her sleeve just to make a good joke.

"A shame, indeed." she tsked, refilling the cup. Then, her glance shifted towards Amandil, and she let her eyes widen in affected surprise. "Oh, my! A man who isn´t drinking!"

"By the King of Armenelos, how could that possibly be?" Pharazôn cried. "A cup for this man, at once! He is my friend, the best swordsman in Númenor and a sacred priest of the Great God!"

"Such a ruckus." Pummyaton shook his head, proferring an empty cup to Amandil. "Here you are, Your Holiness."

The woman poured the scented wine with a steady pulse. Amandil nodded and gulped it down –sipping on it would have been unacceptable in the present company-, but when she was about to turn back and leave, Pharazôn held her by the sleeve of her dress.

"Where are you going? Stay with us, too." he invited. The courtesan covered her mouth with her free sleeve and giggled, honoured, while the ruckus of pushing others back and rearranging the sitting space started anew in both ends. This time, it was another of the guards who had to leave the stool, and the woman sat between Pharazôn and Pummyaton.

"And now for your story!" the prince reminded, drinking and caressing the woman´s neck with a daring hand. She leaned against him, and presented Amandil with a breathtaking view of her pale and graceful neck.

He swallowed, remembering who was waiting for him. All of a sudden, he felt an overpowering wish to leave, and he had to force himself to stay seated between his half-drunk friend and the Sorian soldier´s animated chatter.

The men talked about glorious –and not so glorious- wars against the fierce natives, who had been a threat to the Númenoreans of Umbar ever since the city was established in a corner of what had been their vast territory. Pharazôn listened in rapt attention, and asked questions while his bored woman´s attempts to distract him from the conversation grew more and more obvious. Pummyaton, disgusted at the amount of fussing and kissing that was taking place in his immediate vicinity, abandoned the stool and began courting a woman of his own.

Amandil also grew interested after a while, and even asked some questions, though they tended to focus on details that made Pharazôn shrug, like the exploration trips that had been made across the Southern desert, or how the settlements of the natives looked like. At some moment, a woman came in with painted ceramic bowls full of dates, and once that he checked that most of his companions did not care much for them, he hid some in his sleeve while they were busy talking. He knew of someone who would surely appreciate them much more.

When the same woman came a while later to collect the bowls, he realised that she was evaluating him with a predatory glance. His daydreaming evaporated, and he tensed.

"You do not seem to be drinking much." she observed in a singsong tone, leaning her head to the side. Her hair was arranged in a complicated knot that fell down her neck, and it had probably been dyed black, judging by the clear colour of her eyes. Her lips were full and sensual.

"This is my fourth cup." he lied. She arched an eyebrow.

"Four cups and all you can think about is martial exploits? Why, I cannot believe it!"

"Indeed!" Ibal laughed. Too late, Amandil understood her strategy, and cursed between his teeth. "Has he made a celibacy vow, the little priest of Melkor?"

"When you are in a party, you are not supposed to preach saintly ways –even if you´re a priest!" his brother snorted. Pharazôn stared at him with a curious frown.

"Women say that there is no better lover than a priest of Melkor." the courtesan continued her taunting. "Alas for empty fame!"

Amandil let go of a deep breath, more and more annoyed at each passing moment. It was not his fourth cup, true, but it was at least his second, and he was already feeling the jaws of danger close on him with sinister accuracy. _And you deserve it,_ Yehimelkor would have told him dryly if he could have seen him now. _It is a fool who surrounds himself with fools._

He stood up, muttering something, and took advantage of their surprise to leave the place with as much dignity as he could. He did not care if those louts and that whore considered him a coward. He would explain the truth to Pharazôn, once and for all – when he was sober, and certainly when they were _alone_.

As he reached the courtyard of the inn, he stopped in his tracks to close his eyes, and welcomed the cool breeze of the night upon his sweating face. Slowly, the dizziness and the drunken haze faded away, and his head began to clear. The rain had stopped falling at some point of the feast.

Thinking about it, he realised now that his abrupt exit had not only been a show of cowardice, but also rude to his friend who had invited him. While he sorted out and carefully put away the sweet dates on his sleeve, he sincerely hoped that he had been too drunk to care.

As if some high being up there had heard his wish and decided to have a laugh at his expense, however, just then he heard the sound of unsteady steps over the wooden planks of the porch behind his back. He swallowed, and turned around.

It was Pharazôn, who had abandoned the wine, the talk of battles and the courtesan´s embrace in order to come after him. The effects of wine were apparent in his clumsy movements, and yet there was an almost sober scowl upon his forehead as he fixed his eyes on his.

"You are hiding something from me!" he growled. _So like Pharazôn, to skip over the bulk of boring proceedings._

Amandil withstood the accusing glance.

"Is there anything you would want to know?" he asked mildly, arching an eyebrow. The prince stared at him in puzzlement for some time, then shook his head with a groan.

"Did you think that you would steal all those dates without anyone noticing? And not only that, you drank almost nothing –such a good wine, it is, that´s why I like to come here at all!-, and what to say about the women? You fled them like they were those sea-monsters that crawl ashore once in a hundred years and take human shape! Those sar... ser... _serpents?_ , oh, curse it, who cares how they are called?"

"Sirens." Amandil offered, helpfully. Pharazôn barely gave him an answering nod, plunged as he was in his irritation.

"Whatever, there is some girl who has taken your fancy!" he declared with a violent gesture of his hands. "You cannot deny it, I have seen through you!"

The priest-novice´s eyes widened in suprise. _Almost sober –_ indeed.

"I admit it." he sighed, a bit incommodated, but unwilling to fuel his friend´s mood. With a bit of luck, he would later go back to the feast and drink ten cups more, and all he would remember the next day would be some kind of blurred haze. "Her name is Amalket."

"A courtesan?" Pharazôn´s expression changed to a vivid interest. Amandil shook his head, almost insulted at the insinuation made about his beloved. She was so innocent... so pure...

"No! She is the... "Just as he was about to say "daughter of a captain of the Palace guard", he cursed his stupidity and interrupted himself. Pharazôn, now or sometime later, might start a campaign of indiscreet enquiries, and he had _many_ friends in the Palace guard. The last thing he wanted was for her father to learn of the affair in such a way. "She is the daughter of a well-to-do family."

"Well-to-do family?" Pharazôn laughed. "And she is so cheap that she appreciates sweets stolen from a drinking feast?"

"Well, I do not need to buy her favours, you know!" Amandil growled, offended. "She likes them, that´s all."

"Is she beautiful?"

Accepting the abrupt change of subject as the closest to an apology that he was likely to get, he nodded.

"She is... small, and slight of build, but not enough to feel bones under the skin." he muttered, losing his eyes in the distance. He had never spoken of her to anyone before. "And her skin is soft... "

Pharazôn snorted.

"You are almost drooling! I _am_ worried about you now!"

Amandil shook his head. His friend´s flippant attitude was beginning to annoy him seriously.

"You say it as if you had any idea of what you are talking about."

Pharazôn jumped at the insinuation.

"I have bedded _dozens_ of women!"

"Courtesans."

"And none has asked for payment!"

Amandil sighed. Another of the things about Pharazôn that he could not wholly understand was how he could be so innocent about some things, even as he made a show of running ahead of his age in others.

It made him feel protective enough as to let go of his anger for a moment.

"You are a prince. Who would ask you for payment?" he explained patiently. Pharazôn looked puzzled again, though the outside air had cooled most of his drunkenness by now.

"If they did not want me, and wouldn´t ask for money, why would they come to me at all?"

"Fame. Status." Amandil muttered. Sighing again, he relented. "And I suppose that your good looks must help a great deal. But the issue remains the same: you do not love them. Or do you?"

For a moment, it seemed as if the prince´s face was obscured by a passing thought. Soon, however, he shook it away, and shrugged.

" _Love_. Why would I wish for my life to become as complicated as yours?" He gestured towards the door with his chin. "They will be laughing at you until next year, all because of that... _siren_."

_Hopeless_. But then again, Amandil, who had known him since he was a little boy, had not really expected him to be otherwise. It would be long, if ever, until a woman gave his impetuous friend pause. He did not known what the word "wait" meant, or prudence, or self-control – always rushing into things at the worst possible time. His life seemed to be led only by vital impulses, now here, tomorrow there.

A part of Amandil admired, and envied him for this. Another felt worried for him, at times.

"Now, what are you doing, planted there in the middle of the bloody yard like the bloody White Tree? Go and see her! What´s the purpose of acting stupid if you´re not even going to get any afterwards?"

Shocked, Amandil interrupted his musings to look at the prince. He was serious.

He blinked.

"So you won´t mind if I leave your feast?"

Pharazôn shook his head, as if his friend was some kind of idiot.

"Of course I won´t mind! In fact, "he added, allowing his lips to curve in an anticipating smile, "there is a woman waiting for me inside. While here there is only you sulking over your beloved... what´s her name, and a cold breeze."

Amandil nodded mechanically.

"I am sorry."

"Whatever." Pharazôn sized him over for the last time, then turned away with a snort. "She´s small and slight of build... her skin is so soft.... Disgusting!"

"If you wish. " Amandil muttered, wading through the mud pools in the direction of the other door.

* * * * *

At that advanced hour of the night, the streets were largely empty, except for some groups of revelers who sang bawdy songs and cheered as he passed them by. Amalket´s father lived at the other side of the hill, so the walk over wet pavements was long and impatient. Still, when he finally stood in front of her gates, his intent was mingled with a vague inquietude, and he tried not to think of what would happen if he was discovered.

With fastidious and uneasy exactitude, he counted the windows several times before throwing the pebble. He had been through this before, but it was still a relief when a small head popped over the windowsill and a hand waved to him. Answering the gesture, he headed for the door, and waited.

A minute later –which seemed more like an age for him-, the door opened with a faint creak. A woman signaled him to enter.

As he followed her through moonlit inner yards, stairs and corridors, his heart was beating quickly inside his chest. Inside the house, everything was plunged in a deep silence, and the only sound that could be heard was his soft footsteps and the dull sweeping of the maid´s dress against the floor. He remembered the laughter, the loud cheer of Pharazôn´s feast where he had been a mere while ago, and a feeling of unreality seized his soul.

"My lady is waiting for you." she whispered with a bow, turning away from him and leaving him alone in a dark corridor. Remembering his previous visit, he found his way easily through the shadows, until his hand grabbed the hard coldness of a bronze handle. He pulled it resolutely, and the door opened.

She was sitting on her couch, waiting for him. A white dress with blue flowers spilled its folds in a circle around her, as if she was one of those white roses that grew at the gardens of the Temple. Her skin reflected the glow of the moon, and as she turned a pair of joyful honey eyes in his direction, he almost felt himself go weak in the knees.

She had had that effect on him, since the first moment that they met. He still remembered that day, when he had been assigned to the Temple gates at a Festival celebration and a distraught young woman had addressed him shyly. She had lost her mother in the crowd –her mother, whose hearing was cursed so she could not hear people calling her-, and please, had he seen a lady who walked alone?

What had happened afterwards had been anything but logical. Somehow, he had found himself leaving his post against all rules, and searching among the crowd that approached the Temple from all gates for a woman that he had not even seen before. Bewitched by her alternate looks of distress and gratitude, he had not even realised the stupidity of his actions until he was confronted by the irate questioning of his superiors.

At his age, Amandil had known a woman or two –not nearly as many as Pharazôn-, but it was the first time that he felt as if he would be able to act against his own interests and against common sense, even knowing it, and do it over and over again. After so many years, he finally understood why Yehimelkor compared women to wine and said that both could be extremely dangerous to a man – but he did not even care that it was so.

"Hannimelkor!" she cried, impulsively throwing her arms over his shoulders. He relished in the softness of her embrace, and the heavy scent of perfumed oil.

The smells that she perceived, however, were not so pleasing to her taste. Suspiciously, she began sniffing at his neck, and a cloud came over her features.

"You smell of wine." she accused. "Where have you been?"

Amandil sat at her side on the mattress, which gave way under his weight with a dull, compressing sound.

"I was invited to a feast. It was my best friend.... I could not refuse."

The cloud became more ominous.

"Were there women?"

The young man was torn between an impulse to laugh at her jealousy and the fear that she would misunderstand. In the end, he settled for a harmless lie.

"Not a single one." he assured her, touching the side of her face with a placating caress. "Just a lot of drunkards. And I would not have looked at them, anyway!"

"Do not go to feasts where there are women." she admonished, relenting to his protestations. "They are all a bunch of hyenas."

_You cannot even imagine how right you are,_ he thought, remembering the courtesan of the sweet bowls and her taunting.

And speaking of sweet bowls...

"I do not know if they are hyenas, but they are as unfair towards their lovers as the Queen Ancalimë." he replied, pretending to be offended. "I had been thinking about you all the time, so much that I had even picked something for you..."

"Really?" Her face lighted up like that of a child who was promised a treat, and she immediately became all doe eyes and sweet touches. "Oh, my dearest, I am so sorry for doubting you. What did you bring?"

Allowing himself to be easily convinced, Amandil produced the small bag of dates, and lay it upon her lap. She clapped her hands, and stared fearfully in every direction as she remembered about the noise.

When it became apparent that nobody had heard her antics, she picked a date and began munching on it with great relish. Amandil gazed at her as she ate, admiring how this contentment increased her beauty, kindled sparks on her eyes and coloured her cheeks.

For a moment, he felt a wish to cringe at his own thoughts. If Pharazôn could hear them!

"Do you want any?" she asked, dangling a bunch of golden dates in front of his nose. He extended a distracted hand to take them, but she pulled it away.

"Only one." she admonished warily.

"They will harm your stomach." he muttered. She laughed this away, her mouth full. As a result of one of her movements, a small foot appeared under the folds of her dress.

Amandil swallowed deeply, and took it with both hands. Nonplussed, she leaned back, flexing her knees, and allowed him to touch it and cover it with a rain of kisses. Now and then, she tried to pull it away, giggling.

"You are tickling me!" she protested. He did not answer, his senses absorbed by the strong scent of oil, the softness, the smallness, the perfection.

Yehimelkor could say whatever he wished, he thought, in a small rebellious impulse. _He_ had never enjoyed this. He did not even know that it  existed. Compared to a single foot, all the treasures, the gardens, the running fountains, the halls, the assembled magnificence of the Temple of Melkor was nothing but dead and ancient dust.

From her feet, he then progressed to the tender flesh of her legs, even softer and warmer to his touch. Amalket opened them several inches further, and gathered the folds of her dress up to ease his task. It had been shortly after they met that Amandil had discovered, to his wonder, that a long education in the ways of propriety would leave no trace in her when they were together. Once they began their lovemaking, she only cared for pleasure.

As he reached her knees, she leaned forwards to embrace him, and both fell upon the couch with a soft thud. He bathed in the curves of her body, stifled her imprudent moans with his kisses, and allowed each moment of pleasure to stretch in time until time itself was a forgotten notion. Trembling and shaking, she buried her face in his chest, and cried his name.

Then, after it was over, both curled together, murmuring pointless endearments to each other. The energies of release had left their bodies in a furious whirlwhind, leaving nothing but lifeless limbs behind. One of her hands traced lazy circles over his stomach.

It was from this dazed state that a discreet knock on the door roused them much later. Amandil frowned in regret, forcing himself to stand up. The moon had already set behind the terraces, in a blaze of red glory.

"Morning is near." he whispered to his lying lover, who grimaced rebelliously.

"I hate mornings!"

He sighed.

"Me, too."

In regret, he pulled away from her, to step naked into the chill that preceded the dawn. Kneeling under the bed, he sought for his clothes, and began fumbling in the dark to put them on. Amalket propped her chin against her hand, and watched his every movement in pensive silence. For a moment, he wanted to drop them on the floor again; to go back to her, _kiss her mood away...._

Behind their backs, the door slid open, and an annoyed face peered from the crack.

"The birds are singing already. Five more minutes and you will have to jump from the window!" the woman scolded. Amandil nodded, with an apologetic look in his lover´s direction.

"I will come back soon. I promise."

She handed him his cloak.

"The next time that the Temple opens its gates, look for Adiba. She will bring you a message from me." she mumbled, flustered. "I... do not forget!"

"I will not." he assured her, indulging in a last, exploring glance that would allow her image to live in his mind until their next encounter. Her hair fell dishevelled through her back after their exertions, and its brown curls looked almost red under the faint glow of the approaching dawn.

_It was so unfair._

"Be safe." she heard her voice behind his steps, as he followed the servant past the threshold in quiet resignation.

* * * * *

The pale brow was furrowed in an imperious frown. Even though the shadows were thick around her, he could easily distinguish the lines of her displeasure.

"You did not come yesterday night. Again."

"I was at a feast." he explained, not too apologetic. If he was to say the truth, he had been avoiding her for the past months, and purposefully missing many of their appointments. "With some soldiers and Palace guards, and my friend Hannimelkor. I... guess I was drunk afterwards." he admitted, with a shrug.

Zimraphel frowned, her anger turning to curiosity.

"Really? Where?"

"At an inn, close to the Guards´ headquarters in the western side of the Palace hill." Pharazôn, used to his cousin´s hunger for details, was as meticulous as possible. "We were many."

"Was there wine?" she asked, leaning slightly forwards. He nodded.

"Plenty of it."

"And music?"

"Yes. Banquet songs, drinking songs... all that."

"And women?"

Her grey eyes were wide, devouring his with a strange, joyful ferocity.

"Yes." he admitted. She laughed, and clapped her hands.

"That sounds fun! Did you bed any of them?"

Incommodated, Pharazôn looked aside for a moment. Through the window, a ghastly light was filtering through the twisted branches of the White Tree. The First Courtyard lay empty at that hour of the night, with its grey pavement stretching beyond their sight.

"I did." he muttered, in a low voice that rarely escaped his brash lips.

"Was she beautiful?"

Wanting to tell her that she should not ask him about those things, that this line of conversation was not appropriate, he turned a frowning look towards her. The words became stuck in his throat at once.

Zimraphel had that expression that he had soon learned to recognise as a signal that she was _not_ willing to understand. Whenever he saw that dark glint in her eyes, he felt vaguely uneasy, as if instead of a frail woman he was facing the irrational, blind might of the Sea that had once been about to drown him in the Forbidden Bay when he was a child.

"Was she beautiful?" she repeated. He sought his mind for an answer.

_Was she?_ A brief image of the luxuriously dressed courtesan crossed his mind. Then, he focused back on Zimraphel, on her face sculpted in ivory and so radiant under the pale glow of the night. Strands of raven black hair fell down her shoulders like a royal mantle.

He thought that, even though those features were sometimes twisted in an unholy expression, and the lips whispered words that made him shiver to the marrow of his bones, he always came back to her, like a common criminal who hid under the cover of the night, fearing that his secret shame would be discovered.

No, he realised. To call any woman beautiful in her presence would be blasphemous. As they all lay with him in bed, murmuring endearments in his ears, her shadow was floating over them, making them dissolve like starlight under the bright rays of the full moon.

Pharazôn knew that he was not supposed to have those thoughts about his cousin. But as much as he had tried to stop courting the danger, to get drunk every night and bed all the courtesans of Southern Armenelos whenever he was supposed to be visiting her, the curse still haunted his steps.

Sometimes he had wondered if, somehow, she knew.

"No. Not beautiful." And then, before he could even think. "Just pleasant... skilled."

"Skilled?" Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. "How, skilled?"

Pharazôn coughed, red to the tip of his ears.

"Good in bed." he mumbled. "Let us change the topic."

Zimraphel ignored him.

"Did she... kiss you?"

Pharazôn was unsettled by the mix of innocence and sensuality in her voice. To his further shock, her hands began to touch and caress her own body, in distracted and almost inadvertent motions.

He took a sharp breath. Should he leave, flee to his chambers like a coward? Or stay, and be driven to a turmoil of feelings, of actions that he would later have cause to regret?

If Hannimelkor could see him now! Just the other day, he had mocked him for his love for a city girl, but the truth was that any stupidity done for her sake would be less laughable – _despicable_!- than Pharazôn´s current situation.

"I said I did not want to talk about this!" he said, now more forcefully. Her face fell at those words, and her joy became sadness. She stared at her twitching hands, her composure crumbling in a matter of seconds.

"You probably think me so pitiful." she mumbled, with a breaking voice. "But you do not know what it means to be alone. You do not know what it means to be imprisoned in the dark, a living corpse entombed between stone walls. Do you have an idea of what it is to be unable to know the love, the life that you so freely enjoy? That I, a princess in blood, a queen in beauty and a goddess in wisdom, am forced to beg for scraps of your tales and live through you?" she raged, her body shaking. "Ah, the indignity!"

The young prince stared at her. He had been witness to her capricious turns of mood, and sometimes she had been sad or angry, but never before had he seen raw desperation. A knot gathered in his throat, a cold grip that paralyzed his reactions.

He wanted to comfort her, to flee her presence... and he could do neither.

"Zimraphel..." he mumbled. Grey, impulsive eyes sought for his, heavy with unshed tears. He felt something akin to a punch on the gut, and before he could realise what he was doing, he held her chin with her hands and kissed her.

Her response was avid and clumsy, very different from the expertise of the courtesans. And maybe, in an inner recess of his mind, also very unlike the evil temptress that had been built from figments of his imagination whenever he felt haunted by her image.

Then, realisation dawned on him, and he pulled back in shock.

"This is a crime." he hissed. "The curse of the Goddess will fall upon us!"

She stared at him with disappointed, questioning eyes, as if she did not understand.

"Why?"

"We are cousins!"

Her surprise turned to livid rage.

"I do not care!"

He shook his head, and turned his eyes away from her. He had to withstand the temptation. He tried to imagine the ivory face at the altar twisting in fury, the sacred fire refusing to burn for him.

_She was mad._ Mad, or taken by an evil spirit. She did not know what she was saying- but _he_ , he should know.

"Have a good night." he mumbled, turning back to leave the room at a quick pace. A strange buzz filled his ears, his lungs screamed for air, and he was barely able to hear a strangled sound of pleading in the distance.

As soon as he was sure that he had left her behind, he pressed his burning forehead against a marble column. _The fire quenched in the altar..._

The sun shining on the hair of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in the Palace gardens.

_...the Goddess looking at him in fury..._

Her lips trembling under the moonlight, and the fascinated, expectant touch of a warm hand upon his shoulder.

He shook his head, as if trying to free it from the turmoil of his own thoughts. His body felt hot, but it was not just the shame or the arousal. It was as if a spirit had posessed him.

For the following hours, Pharazôn did nothing but rush past halls, galleries, corridors and even courtyards, trying to outrun the shadows that followed in his wake. Anyone who would have met him, and seen the frenzy in his expression, would have recoiled in superstitious fear.

_Never see her again. Never see her again._ , a voice – the voice of his mother?- whispered in his ears. _Forget that she exists. Forget her beauty and her loneliness, my child._

And yet, in a dark recess of his mind, he knew that sooner or later, he would be back.


	33. The Unforgivable Sin

Here´s the next chapter. Thanks to the folks of the Lizard Council for picking my nits!

 

 

 

Zimraphel stared at the singing whirls of water, her lips moving to form words. Her breath was soft, very soft, almost as if she did not wish for anything to disturb their secret language.

Behind her, rough hands were pulling her hair, turning her head left and right like that of a rag doll. Her limbs and bones were melting under their touch, like a fog, or better still like a viscous substance such as the fins of living fish when touched by human fingers.

"Am I allowed to love a man?" she asked. The hands stopped abruptly, and her hair fell again down her shoulders, tickling the back of her neck. For a moment, she was happy.

"Where... did you get such an idea?" a shocked voice inquired. "Did you read it in a book?"

She frowned again. Her hands tightened into knuckles.

"Am I, or not?"

Recognising the ominous note in her tone, Zarhil walked to her front, and stared at her in mute bewilderment. The water was invisible for her now, but she still heard its song in the distance.

"My child..." the woman began. Her features softened. "It is yet too soon to think of such things." One of her hands caressed her cheek, and a feeling of repugnance took hold of Zimraphel as she imagined the rough touch marring the perfection of her ivory cheeks. "You are little older than twenty. Do you know how old I was when I married your father?"

The young woman shook her head, pulling back to flee the hand. She heard her mother swallow.

"I do not care." she hissed. "I want to know if I can love a man."

"You are too young for this conversation."

Nervous, Zarhil turned away, and began to pace in circles in front of the fountain. After a while, she became self-conscious, and stopped to watch the flow of the water with her tense back to her daughter.

This reminded Zimraphel of a dream, where an old woman stood on a boat and she felt the burning anguish of loneliness. She shivered. She hated her mother´s back.

She hated her mother.

"Look at me!" she shouted, with a voice that erupted from her throat like a terrified plea. Zarhil obeyed mutely, and knelt in front of her with a look of pity and worry.

"My child..."

"I am not allowed."

The woman shook her head, touching her forehead with her fingers. Zimraphel perceived her clumsy discomfort, and knew that she was right.

"One day, your father will be King." she said, in an almost crooning tone. "You will be the Princess of Númenor, and you will marry..."

"... Father´s chosen heir." she completed. "Who will be marrying a madwoman because the King made him to."

The hand that touched her forehead froze. Zarhil went very pale, and Zimraphel smiled, feeling the capricious wish to gloat.

"You are not mad!"

"Yes, I am."

For a moment, it seemed as if her mother would choke with the words that fought to come out of her mouth. Suddenly, she extended her arms, and gathered her daughter in a fierce embrace.

Her chest heaved up and down noisily, as if she was having difficulties to breathe.

"My child..." she mumbled into her ear. Zimraphel closed her eyes and stood still. It would not hurt her if she did not move.

Nothing would hurt her if she did not move, except water. Water would drown her.

"I love you." Zarhil repeated several times, making no sense. "I love you, my child. I... I want you to lead a happy life. Only..." She let her go, and stared at her with a frown and a new determination. "And you _will_ have it. You will have it, I swear, whatever I have to do to ensure it."

Zimraphel twisted her mouth in disdain.

"You do not own my soul." she stated. Zarhil frowned, momentarily uncomprehending, and then shook her head.

"Oh, my child! This is not what I...."

The young princess did not want to hear. She looked away, humming the song of the waters.

One day, they would not own her body, either.

* * * * *

_In the beginning, there was naught but dark and lime_

_Floating in emptiness_

_In the midst of it He stood_

_Alone; He, the great, the only_

_The Fatherless god._

_None could boast of having sired Him_

_And none were his children_

_For He was perfection_

_And perfection is an end unto itself._

_\--------_

_One day, from the region of the deep currents She came_

_She, the impetuous, the ever-shifting_

_stirring, lusting, fulfilling_

_Queen of Desire_

_She fell in love with His perfection_

_And took His light into the shadows of her belly_

_\--------_

_From this union, a child was born_

_He, the first, the only_

_The most beloved son_

_The Father laid a crown of light upon his head_

_The Mother spun stars in his mantle_

_He shaped the trees, the mountains, the endless plains_

_He called forth the animals, those that run, those that fly_

_And those that crawl upon the ground_

_He made the Sea, fish-kingdom, swift road for vessels_

_And gave it to the Mother, to honour the fruitful belly_

_Where he had grown._

_She laughed in delight_

_And made his world her sacred home._

_\--------_

_He then created a mighty race of creatures_

_Fair but soulless, crafty but cruel_

_They turned against him, raised swords against their maker_

_And tried to steal his crown._

_\--------_

_In revenge, he created a second race_

_They were not fair or crafty_

_They were a swarm of bloodthirsty monsters_

_The terrible fruit of his wrath_

_They fell upon the soulless folk_

_And feasted on their flesh._

_\--------_

_For days and nights, he wandered_

_Through forests, through mountains and through endless plains_

_None could abate the fire in his heart_

_Nothing could take his mind away from their treason._

_But one night, he arrived to the pearl-sprinkled shore_

_The silver light of the Moon fell upon her face_

_The Mother smiled_

_And his heart was at peace._

_Then, he created a third race of beings_

_Who were, of all, the most similar to himself_

_They were strong, proud and brave_

_The great, the most beloved children_

_They lived away from pain and disease_

_And the secret of eternal life was theirs._

Amandil leaned back, holding his hands in front of him as he repeated the last verse in a low voice. The dusty scroll ended there; he could not help but feel relieved at this.

Yehimelkor had extensively commented on that poem in the past, the oldest heirloom of the temple of Sor. He had written things, too, some of which had brought him to clash with old and revered priests from the East. There had been much controversy about the creation of the Orcs, but the greatest matter of contention was the crude phrase: " _And took His light into the shadows of her belly"._

This was an abomination, according to Yehimelkor. Would eternal Perfection be subjected to such a barely concealed sexual act? Would the everlasting gods feel human desires? It was absurd, nothing but the misled imaginings of an ancient priest. Eru had thought a beautiful thought, and the power of the Lady had made Him wish, for the first time, to admire and love His work from outside. _That_ was the origin of the Great God Melkor, and to think otherwise one would have to be a sinner with a muddled mind. His enemies had argued that none of them had the right to question such an ancient text, and Yehimelkor had elaborated relentlessly on the differences and contradictions in the traditions of the different temples.

Amandil, himself, was somewhat worried about Yehimelkor, for he knew the delicate position he was in and did not seem to care much about it. As for the rest, he did not see much difference between one theory and the other. Or rather, he _did i_ n a purely rational sense –in spite of what the priest would say, he was not that much of a fool-, but there was a certain something in their disputes that tended to make him want to dissociate his mind from them.

Maybe it was the fact that no one really seemed to care about the truth, just about what concepts would fit better. Once, he had dared to ask Yehimelkor if he was taking his theories from some kind of source, and had been answered by a look of disdain and one of those long lectures full of names and concepts that the priest usually bestowed upon his enemies. And then, he had been ordered to study _all_ the lore of the Beginning as it was kept in the Four Great Temples, and other six or seven that were not so great.

He was aware that he was _somewhat_ of a fool as well – he disliked to think about those things that he could not grasp, those things that, he knew in a corner of his mind, could get to make a terrible difference. At nights, when everything was dark and he shut his eyes, he could summon the face and loving glance of his mother, telling him marvellous tales with a soft voice. A child, he had listened in awe to all those things that _had_ really happened, so scary and so beautiful and so strange that nobody could have invented them if they were not true.

Would there also be such disputes, such theories among the Faithful? Would he have needed to learn them, had he stayed in Sor with his family, and would they maybe be less convincing than Yehimelkor´s devastating logic? He hated to think about this. No... he _refused_ to think about this.

That was why, he knew, Yehimelkor made him learn those things at all.

The sound of footsteps and low voices interrupted the chain of his musings. Instantly, Amandil straightened up, and pretended to be muttering something.

Yehimelkor entered the room accompanied by another priest, a middle-aged man with pale skin and a bald head. They passed him by with barely a nod, though Yehimelkor turned back to address him in his way to his chambers.

"I will have dinner now. Alone." he added, before he could open his mouth to ask.

Recognising the order as an unmistakeable cue to leave them, Amandil bowed to each of them and left the room.

* * * * *

Yehimelkor´s dinner was composed of soup, vegetables, and a black tea whose smell was enough to give Amandil nausea. As he entered the rooms with the tray, the elder priest had already left, so he merely left it at the table where Yehimelkor was reading.

A pair of penetrating eyes were slowly lifted from the pages.

"Hannimelkor." he greeted, as if truly seeing him for the first time. Amandil stopped in mid-retreat, and met his glance.

He looked tired.

"Have you been studying the books I gave you?"

Amandil nodded.

"Yes, Revered Father"

"Have you said your prayers?"

"Yes, Revered Father."

"Good." Yehimelkor´s forehead creased in a slight frown. "You... should be allowed to take your second oath soon, I believe."

Amandil took a breath. _So this was what...._ He was aware that his tardiness bothered the man, and yet for a while he had believed him to be wholly absorbed by his doctrinal feuds.

He forced back the temptation to shrug. As if it were his fault. The High Priest and his council did not trust a priest with the blood of the Elf-friends – but if most of the times this gave him a feeling of relief, it was never without a small twinge of guilt.

How he wished that Yehimelkor just did _not_ care! After all, he was nothing but the child of a disgraced lineage – who, as if his position was not precarious enough, was having an affair with the daughter of a captain of the guard.

To think about that now only contributed to make things worse.

"I hope so." he said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. Yehimelkor did not answer, and for a moment he was about to turn back and leave.

Then, however, the priest gestured him closer. Amandil obeyed, puzzled, though as he saw the familiar annoyed look, a spark found its way back to his eyes.

"Your hair is dishevelled." Yehimelkor frowned in censure. Amandil knelt, allowing him to tie the knot back in place. He had the bad habitude of pulling his hair while he studied, and he always gave way to it when unsupervised.

Looking slightly more respectable, and with the first feeling of warmth towards the elder man that he had harboured that day, Amandil rose minutes later to go back to his books.

He had not even found yet the text he was searching for when a sound of knocking came from the door.

"You may come in." Yehimelkor´s sharp voice invited. It was Elinoam.

"With all due reverence" he greeted the priest courteously, giving him a deep bow. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, but when he opened his mouth again his voice was calm. "Hannimelkor´s presence is requested to guard the Fire tonight."

Yehimelkor frowned.

"It is not his turn."he said. Amandil regarded his friend with curiosity, and swallowed when he noticed that his left hand was fidgeting.

"The Second Rank Novice Abibal has been rendered incapable of his duties after swallowing by error the cooked flesh of an animal." he replied with admirable aplomb. Yehimelkor sized him up intensely, and Amandil could not help but wince in sympathy. Not even he, who by all rights should be used, could always withstand that glance.

But this time Yehimelkor relented, and nodded in silence. Amandil stood up, ordering his books and folding the manuscripts with care. Elinoam bowed and crossed the threshold, but as soon as he was in the corridor, his easy-going demeanour crumbled to give way to a tense bravado.

"You owe me. Owe me indeed." he muttered. Amandil stared at him.

"What´s the matter?"

Elinoam laughed, but it was not a companionable laughter.

"You will soon have enough problems to worry about this escapade. Come with me." Nodding, still with a lot of unanswered question sizzling in his brain, Amandil followed him through the corridors, and swallowed a protest when he was taken past the altar and across the Great Hall to the gates of the temple. He saw Abibal staring left and right, looking obviously worried.

"Here. Come forth."

From behind the shadows of the threshold, a hooded woman advanced with small steps towards them. When he was at a short distance from him, she raised both hands to take her hood away, and the dark, anguished features of Amalket´s maid-in-waiting stared back at him.

"Something... terrible has happened." she mumbled, falling to her knees. "You _must_ help us!"

Amandil´s heart sank.

* * * * *

"Greetings, my dear son."

Pharazôn nodded in silence, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the familiar soft voice. Melkyelid was sitting in the darkness of her room, her hair pulled in a multitude of small braids that mingled with the heavy folds of her blue dress. Kneeling at her side, two ladies painted silver flowers on the fingernails of her outstretched hands.

"Mother. You wanted to see me."

The Princess whispered something to one of the women, who nodded. Then, her eyes trailed slowly over his countenance, as if taking notice of every slight evidence of his uneasiness.

"I have been hearing rumours about you of late." she said, blandly. "They say that you have taken to drinking and reveling in taverns with people of low status."

His chin shot up in indignation.

"I...!

"I understand that you need, now and then, to have fun, and experience freedom from pressure." she continued, interrupting him. "Your father, for example... but he does not belong to this discussion. This behaviour has been escalading over the past months, and I fear the King will hear about it."

Pharazôn shifted uncomfortably, mortified that his mother would say those things in front of the ladies-in-waiting. The women kept to their work, blowing over fresh paint without seeming to realize that they were at the end of his glare.

"I am _not_ neglecting any of my duties." he protested. Melkyelid nodded.

"And I hope you never will." she agreed. Then, to his relief, she made a vague gesture with her still drying fingers, and the women left the room.

This relief, however, was short-lived. His mother´s piercing stare met his.

"I wonder if a secret love affair could be the reason behind your frequent disappearances."

In the time that he needed to blink, Pharazôn forced himself to reason that it was impossible that his mother knew about Zimraphel. He schooled his features to look calm, and his lips curved in a disarming smile.

"And what if it was so? We all have our little adventures."

"Indeed." Thoughtfully, Melkyelid gazed past the gold-painted lattice of the window. Her distracted look belied the intent in her voice in a way that Pharazôn had learned to be wary of since he was a child. It usually meant that she knew something _else_. "But.... you have been seen stealing into the West wing of the Palace."

Pharazôn´s eyes widened.

"That..." He sought for an adequate response. "A lady... we were involved for some time."

The Princess of the South frowned in concern.

"What is this? My dearest son, are you afraid of something? "She shook her head. "For all those years, I have prided myself on bearing a child who does not know what fear is."

"I am not afraid!" Piqued, Pharazôn strode towards a chair and pulled it forwards, sitting noisily upon it. _That woman could even play the King´s strings sucessfully, damn it._ "And I have had enough of your summoning me like an errant child!"

Melkyelid did not rise to the bait. She studied her fingernails, which she still held spread to dry.

"Is it because you have been meeting with the young Princess of the West?"

The young man stared at her, thunderstruck.

" _How do you know that?_ " he demanded, even before a warning voice could yell in the back of his brain that this had not been the best reaction he could have shown. His mother took it as a cue.

"So you have."

"I..." Caught, a fiery blush began to spread through his cheeks. Like the Middle-Earth panther, he defended himself through attacking. "You had me followed!"

"I did not." Melkyelid replied, a little more forcefully than usual. "Sometimes, your cousin can be quite careless. She gave notes to my women, telling them to deliver them to you."

Pharazôn´s anger gave way to alarm, as his mind began to review the implications. _Did she know about...?_

"This is none of your business!"

"No, it is not." she replied. "And so I did not interfere. Of late, however...."

"What?"

Melkyelid shook her head with a sigh.

"Are you in love with your cousin, Pharazôn?"

The young man´s face blanched.

It was not mere alarm or embarrassment now, but a feeling of dread that sunk to his gut like frozen lead. To hear the words that he had never dared to confront in his most private thoughts, there, in his mother´s lips, managed to drive the acute pang of shame home with deadly effectivity. It rendered him incapable of any other reaction than stuttering lamely.

_Filth. Abhorred by the gods. Impure._

"I swear that I have never performed any dirty acts! I have avoided her for months! " he cried at last, pulling the sign of the Hand on himself. His mother stared at him for a while with an unreadable look in her eyes, then her expression softened.

"Such words!" she snorted. "And I who thought that her... favours were slowly driving you over the edge."

Pharazôn stared back at her in disbelief.

"How can you be so _calm_ about it? And so crude?"

The Princess blinked.

"Nothing of what you said is anything that should make me nervous."she replied. "And you have to be more than fearless to call me _crude_."

"The Goddess is against it. She can´t accept such a..."

"How can you presume to know the will of the gods?"

Pharazôn looked at his mother with a newfound unease.

"This is... this would be _incest_. Surely you must know that!"

"Oh, it is you who does not know many things." she snorted again. "You were not yet born when your crude mother lay on the stone floors of the Lady´s cave at night, waiting for any stranger to throw a silver coin on her lap." Seeing the horror in his eyes, she repressed a smile. "It was there where I met a man called Xaris. He was a powerful king of Middle-Earth, the ally of the merchants of Gadir."

"A barbarian?"

"Yes, a barbarian." Melkyelid nodded. "A barbarian, who had more refinement, more wisdom, more power and certainly more books than many a Númenorean."

Pharazôn´s shock increased, if this was possible. He stared at his mother´s wistful smile.

"Did you... "Obviously uncomfortable with the notion, he tripped over his words, "...talk?"

"Oh, many times!" she laughed. Finally judging her fingernails dry enough, she passed her fingertips over them. "Many men used to feel that we could give them the Lady´s blessing, yet withdraw their darkest secrets from her. The point is... "Serious again, she met her son´s eyes, "that he was married to his cousin, and had four children by her. One of them –a magnificent boy- now holds the sceptre of the barbarians in his place."

Pharazôn shook his head, with so much vehemence that he seemed to be chasing away an insidious temptation to listen.

"Those are barbarians."

"So they may be. Their kings think that no one else but their own kin can be high born enough to marry them." Melkyelid gathered back her braids. "But then, who are we? Our law states that no heir to the throne may marry outside his own bloodline."

"Starting with cousins once removed!"

She shrugged in dismissal.

"A restriction unknown to barbarian men – but not to _Elves,_ it seems _._ King Xaris thought that even after we broke away from their dominion, we still kept believing in some of their unearthly customs. Like that one about bastard children having twisted souls from the violence done to the marriage bond. Ar-Adunakhôr the Great proved this to be wrong."

"There is nothing a barbarian can teach us about our own customs." the young man sneered. Still, it was obvious that the possibility disturbed him, and the mention to Ar-Adunakhôr had made him think. Melkyelid kept pressing the soft spot with her skilled fingers.

"The Kings marry their own bloodline, both among us and among barbarians. And yet we have a restriction that, according to old lore, only exists among Elves. Did it come from our gods? Ashtarte-Uinen, the powerful queen, smiled on Xaris for all his life, and now smiles on his descendants."

"What are you trying to do?" Pharazôn stood up from his seat, and began pacing along the room in furious strides. "Push me into my cousin´s bed? You, my own mother, who bore me in your womb? Doesn´t the... very idea fill you with shame?"

Melkyelid shrugged imperiously.

"And yet I care more for your sanity, my dearest son. I do not wish you to waste your life in despair, drinking in a vain attempt to forget the eyes of a sorceress. "She shook her head. "No! If there is any shame, then I will bear it. Tell me that you will forget her, and I will help you to. I will find the greatest beauty for you, make her love you and deliver her hand in yours. But if you cannot, then I will make you come forth, seize the object of your desire and _win_ , like Ar-Adunakhôr did!"

Pharazôn stopped in his tracks, speechless. His eyes held something strange, as if he was considering her in a new light than before.

He shook his head.

"You..."

She did not speak or move. Words trailed away in his mouth, and he rubbed a hand across his face.

"I do not need your help." he finally declared, whirling back and heading towards the corridor.


	34. The Child Who Was Sent

Here goes the next episode! Many and heartfelt thanks to Pandemonium for her beta reading.

 

 

**The Child Who Was Sent**

 

 

 

"So, let me hear it again." Pharazôn´s wild pacing in circles was beginning to make Amandil dizzy. "Your woman is _pregnant_?"

He nodded tiredly. His friend stopped in his tracks, and shook his head in disbelief.

"There are things for this, you know. Things to prevent a woman from conceiving. And they usually work."

"Usually." Amandil pointed out, mechanically. Their figures projected long shadows in the dimly-lit room of the royal villa of the temple, where they had snuck early at his urgent request. He almost regretted it now: Pharazôn was not being very helpful.

"Kill it before it is born", he was rambling. "After only two months, nobody will be the wiser. There are people who do this sort of thing very..."

"No." Amandil interrupted him, shaking his head. He felt his innards freeze. "I cannot do that."

Pharazôn walked forward until they were but inches apart. He looked enraged now, as if the frustration he had been feeling had finally found a suitable target.

"And you think you have a choice?" he spat. "You are a priest of Melkor. You cannot marry at least until..."

"...I am sixty. And that with special permission, "Amandil recited. "I know that, thank you."

"Well, then you should have remembered it while you were entering women without the proper precautions!"

Now, it was Amandil´s turn to feel rage.

"I did not enter "women"!" he hissed. "I entered only _her_ , and there was nothing wrong with the precautions we took! Do not make me repeat it again!"

Pharazôn barely blinked at this correction.

"Who cares why it happened?" he grumbled with a dismissing gesture of his hand. "It _happened_."

"I care."

"Where is she?" he asked, ignoring him again. Amandil looked down at his feet.

"At home. Pretending she is ill because she does not dare meet her family for fear they will notice."

"So you have not seen her?"

"No. Too dangerous."

"Then don´t." Pharazôn threw himself upon the chair next to his. "Don´t go back to her. This should take care of the problem."

Amandil was not able to prevent himself any longer from raising his voice.

"I told you, no! And she knows where to find me, anyway! She could raise a scandal."

"Suit yourself, then!" Pharazôn shouted back. He leaned forward, livid. "As your bastard, the whelp will have a short and miserable span of life until the King hears of its existence, and _you_ would only be expelled if you were a normal priest! And have you spared a thought for what her family might do?"

Amandil swallowed deeply, forcing his raging nerves to cool. He tried to picture himself following his friend´s advice, getting rid of his unborn child and going back to a life of prisons and prayers. Abandoning Amalket.

Something within him rebelled at the very notion. He felt an all-consuming, almost physical repugnance threatening to erupt in his stomach.

"You _still_ do not understand. I love her. I want her to be my wife and bear my child." All the unsaid words, all the suppresed fury, the anguish he had felt since the fears of an old man had first affected his life came to his mouth now, swift and easily. "They took my family away. They forced me to become a priest. They imprisoned me here, under surveillance and in perpetual fear for my life. They made me pray. They made me sacrifice. They made me renounce my ancestors, but they will not take _this_ from me!"

Pharazôn´s anger had given way to shock. He stared at him wide-eyed, as if he was some kind of monster that had suddenly slithered through a hole in the ground.

In the light of those eyes, Amandil began to realise what he had said. Paling a little, he shook his head.

"That was... out of place."

Pharazôn frowned.

"When you say "they"...?"

"No! It was stupid. I did not know what I was saying." Frightened, Amandil realised that he was blabbering. "Please, forget it. I am not myself right now."

The younger man nodded in silence.

"And yet you _mean_ it," he mumbled. "No" he cut him off, when he realised that Amandil was going to protest, "not that. But you are not going to leave her and the child."

Amandil shook his head.

"I think... I _feel_ it must be some kind of signal. It shouldn´t have been conceived. It was not supposed to happen, we knew what we were doing. She had taken the herbs!" With a sigh, he covered his face with both hands. "What if this was the will of the gods?"

Pharazôn seemed to mull this over for a while. Fortunately, he seemed more puzzled than worried.

"One would think the gods would have given it to you later, once you were allowed to marry. As things are, its very existence is a _crime_ in their eyes!"

Amandil grimaced. Deep inside, he could not help but wonder if the gods who had sent him such a dangerous present were _really_ the same whose laws threatened him now. But he could not say those things to his friend.

_Could this... signal be telling him to run away, and leave the litanies and the smoking altars behind?_

But, where would he go? It would be madness. He would be tracked and killed, and his child with him. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made.

"If I did away with the child, it would be just as bad. It is a crime in religious law, just as abandoning your wife", he elaborated meanwhile, trying to impress some part of his dilemma upon his friend in terms that he could relate with. "I am –supposed- to be a priest, Pharazôn! Even if I was willing to do that, which I am not, it would make no difference in the eyes of the gods."

"So... whatever you do, they won´t be happy with you." Pharazôn deduced with a look of real bewilderment. It was probably a whole new idea for him, Amandil thought, that the gods could be angry at a man no matter what he did.

_After all, Melkor had never refused his blessings to the royal family._

"Isn´t it such a coincidence that, of all the young men of Númenor, this strange thing would happen to me, who am forbidden to marry?" he continued.

Pharazôn stood up brusquely, and grabbed his amulet of the Hand.

"Maybe the gods hate you. They say your blood is impure, after all."

Amandil was not offended. He knew that, too, only too well.

"Maybe."

"I only know one person we could ask about this."

Taken out of his sombre musings, Amandil stared at the prince´s back.

"What?"

"She _loves_ to be asked for help. But meanwhile, you must lay low and wait."

"She... what are you saying?" Puzzled, Amandil stood up and sought Pharazôn´s face. His friend pulled away from him.

"I am not going to sit here while you die on me!" Pharazôn shouted. "If there are gods involved, they will have to be asked."

"But..." Puzzlement became shock, and Amandil stared at his friend. _What on Earth...?_

"And preferably not by _you_." Pharazôn added, turning away to stride out of the room.

 

* * * * *

 

His eyes were fixed upon the flames, blindly mesmerized. The low rumble coming from his lips sounded like a prayer, but in truth it was long ago since he had lost the intricate threads of the litany.

His knees hurt.

Yehimelkor knelt before him, so close to the fire that his hands, pressed against the floor, had turned scarlet. The words fell fluidly from his lips, one after the other in perfect, flawless repetition.

After he finished the Third Litany, there was a brief silence. Stray sparks cracked in the fireplace.

"You may leave and rest." the priest said. Amandil bowed to his back in mute gratitude and stood up, repressing a groan at the renewed ache in his legs. As he left the overheated room, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

For a while, he stood watching the bowed figure through the door. Yehimelkor had not even moved, and he knew that he would probably stay there for hours. For the priest there was no pain or heat now, only devotion. When he prayed, he lost all notion of time and the outside world, even though he had been able to lift his glance for a moment and spare his younger pupil´s discomfort.

Amandil swallowed, and turned away. Cursing between his teeth, he wondered why it was now that every single show of goodwill from that man sprang to his mind in minute detail. For years he had complained, resented his words and his actions, his unreasonableness, his harshness, but now he was not able to recall even a reason why this should be easier for him.

He sat down, and proceeded once more to unfold the missive he had received that very morning. It was written in Pharazôn´s abysmal calligraphy.

 

_Mother did not only agree to consult the Goddess about you; she also decided, after the rites, to help you. I can find no words to convey to you how important her goodwill is. The Princess Melkyelid always gets what she wants._

_As it turns out, the priests of the Goddess can marry under any circumstances. So she spoke to the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay. She claimed that the Goddess wants you, and that this was shown to her in a vision at the main altar, so there was little else he could do but agree. Apparently there is a list of precedents and she knows them by heart, not to mention she is a princess. She also persuaded him to appoint her as messenger to the High Priest of Melkor, so she will be meeting with him shortly. According to her, he will be very glad of the excuse to have you off his hands, because of your family._

_Don´t worry about the King; he will raise no objections, though don´t ask me how she did it. It is rumoured in the Palace that he is becoming more religious as years go by, and she does know how to play that card. The greatest remaining obstacle, according to her, will be persuading Yehimelkor, but this is something that you must do on your own - and soon. She bids you to elaborate on visions of the Goddess when you are interrogated. Do not tell anyone that you will be getting married: this must remain a secret, lest the King hears about it._

_If everything goes well, you will be departing for the Forbidden Bay in a month, and nobody in Armenelos will know what happened. Make your arrangements with Amalket´s family, but do it in secret and, for the King of Armenelos´s sake, don´t tell them the truth. Tell them you are the son of a rich merchant or some courtier´s bastard and that you will send them money._

_I am deeply loath to see you go, but she insists that it is for the best, and that you should be made aware of that also. In years to come, we will meet again in the army._

 

Amandil repressed a shiver, just as he had done that morning when he had skimmed through those lines for the first time. For all his life, he had felt bitterness at his forced imprisonment in Armenelos, and yet now that an unknown woman had taken it upon herself to change his life, he was not sure of how he felt about it.

It scared him that a royal princess had decided to interfere in his affairs, and that she was in possession of his secrets. He had always tried to pass unnoticed, since, as a child, he had discovered that there were people who considered him dangerous just because of his blood. It scared him, too, that she had brought this issue to the King and the High Priest´s attention. That had happened already once -when he was a child and another member of the royal family contrived to put him under Melkor´s protection. He felt like a toy, bounced back and forth by the hands of strangers, until one of them slipped and dropped him.

But even worse than this was the unexpected turn of his life. He would have to leave Amalket and his child -and under such terms!- and relocate to an unknown place to become part of a different cult. Logic, cold and implacable logic, agreed with Pharazôn´s mother, of course: he and Amalket could never have married if he stayed in Armenelos. He was no mere priest.

And yet, what if the King ever heard about this? Would Amalket be in danger while he loitered in the West?

_Could this be a trap?_

Almost immediately, he berated himself for being childish. As if the King needed to get him out of the way to do what he wanted! He was nothing but one foolish young man, even if he had the blood of the Andúnië branch. He would never be able to stand between his wife an the King´s men.

And still... to leave her now, even if it was for the best, was a hard decision to make. Had he been demanded to fight for her, even if it was hopeless, he would not have flinched, but _abandoning_ her! Would they, after all those years, be taking a family away from him again?

_It will not be like that_ , he had tried, many times, to reason. It would still be a temporary measure. Unlike Pharazôn –who nonetheless seemed to have been persuaded in this case, which said much about the danger Amandil _really_ was in- , he had always known how to wait. If he became a soldier, he would come back to Armenelos, and then he would see her again. She was free to visit him, too, and even bring him their child once that he was older. Maybe, even, one day they would live together, after the death of the King.

And he would be going to the Forbidden Bay. From his studies with Yehimelkor, he knew that this was the most beautiful place in Númenor, the old Bay of Eldanna, where the ships from Valinor used to arrive in the past. It had been part of the ancient lands of his family. Maybe he would find some signal, some trace of their presence there...

He shook his head with a start. He should not be worrying about such things; not, at least, before the most pressing danger was over. If he wanted his loved ones to be safe, he should be thinking of what he was going to say when he was interrogated. He should be planning his strategy to approach Amalket´s parents, and tell them that he would marrying their daughter only to abandon her before her child was even born.

_He should be speaking to Yehimelkor._

Amandil shuddered, suddenly hot again. In the adjoining room, the litanies had faded to a soft, persistent whisper. He tried to imagine what the priest would say... what he would do when the boy he had raised asked him, in the name of a princess and a high priest of another cult, to let him go.

How would he take his betrayal?

The paper was crushed to a small ball in his fist, and he stood up. Trying to still his raging emotions, he poured a glass of water, and carefully tiptoed inside the room to leave it at the older man´s side. Yehimelkor did not even seem to have noticed.

_Tomorrow._ Yes, he would tell him tomorrow. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to concentrate in the blurry image of a dishevelled young woman, lying under her covers while she desperately waited for news of him.

_Would she think he had abandoned her?_

Quietly, he sat back on the table, and covered his face with both hands. He had never felt so exhausted.

 

* * * * *

 

Next day, as he had promised himself, he held back after finishing his lessons.

"I need to speak to you." he told Yehimelkor, who surveyed him with a grave look.

"I thought so. You have been most inattentive." He motioned towards the chair. "Sit."

Amandil obeyed. He stared back at the man, trying to steel himself to deliver his carefully constructed lie, but his stomach sunk with the realisation that this was impossible.

The grey eyes were deep and solemn, just as they had been that fatidical day near the fire altar. That day, Yehimelkor had revealed terrible truths to a scared child.

_That day, he had saved his life._

Forcing himself to withstand that glance, Amandil began to speak. He told him everything, even about the baby he had vowed to protect by his silence. The words came quietly, steady and without a stammer.

"And this is why I request your permission to leave this temple."

Only after he was finished, and silence fell upon them like a heavy mantle, he realised that his heart was pounding. He briefly fought the temptation to look elsewhere but at the priest´s paling face.

He swallowed.

"I...." he began. Yehimelkor cut him with an airy gesture.

"Have you thought of doing away with the child?"

Amandil froze in shock. Of all the things he had been expecting, this matter-of-fact suggestion had been the very last.

"That would be a crime in the eyes of the gods," he spoke resolutely. Yehimelkor shook his head.

"Of a minor degree than abandoning your priesthood for a dishonourable reason."

Amandil needed a while to gather his thoughts, until he grasped the piece of information he had researched somewhere in the last, anguished days.

"From the third vow onwards. I have not yet made the second." he reminded him with aplomb.

"They are of equal degree, then," Yehimelkor insisted. Amandil blinked. He was not used to this man discussing religious things so directly, without longwinded arguments or quotes. "So you have a choice between betraying me, dishonouring your priesthood, abandoning the God, placing yourself in mortal peril, or that... _woman_ and her child."

The young man stood his ground, feeling a familiar anger gather its warm coils over his chest at the contempt in the priest´s voice.

"I choose that woman and her child." he replied, more forcefully than he had intended to. Yehimelkor paled even more. He looked almost like a corpse now.

"Go, "he muttered. "Leave my rooms."

Only then, Amandil realised what he had said. He knew it was too late, but he still attempted to explain.

"I mean...that I...."

The eerie calm that had been present in Yehimelkor´s voice up to that moment dissolved in a rush, as the priest´s features creased in rage. Amandil had never seen him with so little control, never so angry.

"Leave my rooms!" he yelled.

Miserably, and without looking back, the young man obeyed.

 

* * * * *

 

It was Elinoam who took him in for the night: the priest he served had vigil duty, and his rooms were empty. Lying on a blanket and feeling miserable, Amandil told him what had just happened.

"I understand his reaction," the young man muttered, staring at the courtyard through a small window. Amandil frowned.

"Oh, I do not say that you shouldn´t follow the commands of the Goddess, if she calls for you, or protect... you know." Elinoam elaborated vaguely as he noticed his expression. "But for him, this is a dishonour. A _very_ great dishonour."

"It´s not his fault," Amandil grumbled, feeling his resolve teetering over the edge again. His friend shook his head.

"You are under his responsibility. As far as anyone here will be concerned, it is."

"Thank you." Amandil forced himself to curve his lips in a sardonic smile. "You made me feel much better."

"Just so you know," Elinoam replied, walking away from the room.

His disapproval at how he had handled the conversation was obvious, and Amandil wondered, crossly, if he had expected him to fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness instead. He had not been allowed to explain, he had been told to leave the room, and therefore, he had left.

What else could have he done?

He wondered if a furious Yehimelkor could turn into a danger for him. Would he tell? Somehow, he could not imagine him doing so, and yet there was something else, something just as terrible -what if he did _not_ give his permission?

Pharazôn´s mother had been right in thinking that Yehimelkor would be the greatest obstacle. Even with two High Priests and a royal princess against him, Amandil could not imagine him cowered or intimidated. He had not even been afraid of the King, back when he took him under his wing.

Or perhaps he would be too proud to keep someone who didn´t want to be with him anymore?

He buried his face on his pillow. _Why?_ That man had been like his father. Would they have to be enemies, after all? Would they end by hating each other? He could not imagine such a thing, after so many years.

_So you have a choice between betraying me..._

_I choose that woman and her child._

He cringed. Maybe Elinoam had been partly right: his wording had been anything but adequate. And yet, he had never been very good at hypocrisies. Yes, this was a betrayal, pure and simple -he did not know how to disguise the fact, and even had he known it, he was not sure he could have managed.

After all, he had been told to lie to him and he had not been able to do that, either.

"King of Armenelos,"he muttered. He had rarely addressed Melkor in his personal prayers, partly because Yehimelkor had taught him that it was a great disrespect to burden the gods with personal issues, and partly because the instinctive revulsion from his childhood had never died completely. Still, in this case, he knew that if there was a divine entity who could sway that priest´s inflexible mind, it _had_ to be him. " Lord of the Island, make his anger at me abate. Let me talk to him one last time."

Only belatedly, he realised he was begging a favour of the god whose service he was about to leave forever. For all those years he had been able to scoff at the ideas of divine punishment, but in his present situation he found that he was afraid to risk it.

He closed his eyes, and tried in vain to find sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

The two following days passed by in a slow whirl of incertitude. Even while dreading the summons, Amandil was worried that they would not come, and Yehimelkor had not made any attempts to meet him after their conversation. At nights, he was visited by the old childhood nightmares, filled with fuming altars and flames and waves, but this time it was not him who drowned or fell to their devouring heat, but a mysteriously silent baby.

The evening of the second day, he guarded the Fire in silence, wondering where he was going to sleep that night. When his time was over, he bowed thrice, greeted his successor, and stood up to walk down the dark and empty hall.

"Hannimelkor."

Startled out of his bleak thoughts, he turned back in the direction of the familiar whisper. Yehimelkor was standing at the side of a column, arms crossed under his white robes and watching him with an unreadable expression.

Amandil approached him cautiously, trying to restrain his excitement. He did not know what the man wanted. Maybe it had been an error...

Maybe, even now, he was not there to give him an opportunity to explain.

"Follow me." the priest ordered, walking past him in the direction of the corridors. Amandil obeyed, his heart beating in his chest.

After a while, he realised that they were heading in the direction of Yehimelkor´s quarters, where he had been living for the past fifteen years. _A good sign,_ he thought, searching his mind frantically for the most appropriate way to profit of this second chance.

Once they were back in the old sitting-room, however, face to face over the small wooden table, Yehimelkor did not seem to want him to talk. He silenced him with a curt gesture, even before his lips had managed to form the first word.

"You may wish to know that I was summoned this morning by the High Priest to discuss you case." he said, flatly. Then, in a slightly lower voice, "I gave my permission."

Amandil looked up, disbelief and pleasure dawning on his face. Of all the things he had been expecting...

"Thank you very much! I..."

"Do not thank me." Yehimelkor cut him off again. His back, his neck and even his hands looked as rigid as wood, and he shook his head. "I did not do it for you. Look!" Amandil followed his glance, and found himself staring at the fire. Confused, he tried to read its capricious movements in search of an answer, but he had never been any good at those things.

Yehimelkor ignored him.

"Have you ever heard anything about my lineage?"

Amandil nodded cautiously.

"Yes. You belong to the long-lived line of the Kings of Númenor."

"I am a descendant of the lady Alashiya. Do you know who she was?"

Amandil frowned, doing his best to summon his recollections. _Alashiya..._ no matter where he sought, the name meant nothing to him.

"I... am sorry," he muttered, feeling as if he was an errant student again. Yehimelkor merely waved it away.

"She is not known by many. For all her life, she was an obscure character, who hid in the shadows and betrayed her most sacred obligations in order to survive." Surprised, the younger man could do little but stare. He wondered if this could be the start of some kind of unflattering comparison. "She was the sister of the Lady Alissha - that name is less unfamiliar to you, I see."

Indeed, Amandil had heard about Alissha. Even though her memory was cursed, there were few in Númenor who did not know about the ambitious cousin of Ar-Adunakhôr, who tried to usurp his throne with the help of many landholding nobles of the provinces and the Elf-friends. She had even gone as far as to pronounce herself Queen in the Palace of Armenelos, only to die in a faraway prison some years later.

Amandil knew, also, that Ar-Adunakhôr and his descendants had accused his own family of being in league with the usurper.

"When she realised that her sister was going to lose, Alashiya left her side. She married a lesser man, a man who had been unfit to even glance at her beforehand, and had his children. Because of these actions, Ar-Adunakhôr did not see any threat in her, and she was left in peace."

The young man glanced at the priest, his troubles momentarily forgotten by this revelation. Only after a while, he realised that Yehimelkor was holding back, as if expecting him to say something.

"I had no idea." he offered, not very cleverly. Yehimelkor´s eyes devoured his face.

"What do you think of her, Hannimelkor?"

Amandil shifted in his chair, uneasy and annoyed at the same time. He had a vague idea of how the links could be tied.

"I..."

"What do you think of her?" The question was repeated, almost in anger.

This time, Amandil rose to the bait.

"She was a coward. I am not."

Yehimelkor did not flinch.

"No. And yet you both betrayed your obligations."

"Our obligations?" Amandil fumed, standing up from the chair and throwing caution to the winds. "I did not ask for that child! And yet it came, and now I have an obligation towards him, too! It´s _mine_!"

"And that is the question."

It was a low whisper, and yet it gave Amandil pause.

"What?"

"Alashiya was a traitor," Yehimelkor continued, but there was a little more feeling in his voice now. "And yet she had children, and her children had children, and now, I am here and alive. Her lineage is alive."

"Your lineage, just as mine, has been judged by men, and condemned by them. However, the gods hold their own counsel, of which we can only perceive an imperfect echo with all our prayers and visions."

He had fallen back to his old, didactical tone, the same with which he had explained to a bored child everything about omens and divine volition. Any belief Amandil might have held that he was understanding the point of the conversation died in renewed confusion.

"What does that mean?" _What do_ _ **you**_ _mean by that?_ was what he truly would have asked, but for once he had the wits to choose the less confrontational answer.

"The gods do not want your lineage to die. For what reason ever, they are challenging the King´s decision, and so must I. However," he interjected swiftly as he saw Amandil´s mouth open to say something, "you are still a betrayer. Our ties are broken, and I advise you to respect this notion. A great disaster is in store for you if our paths ever meet again."

Amandil´s dismay should have been deep enough to show, etched in every line of his face. He stared at Yehimelkor as if it was the first time he saw this thin, heavily-robed figure evaluating him with a harsh and regal look. As if it was the first time that he felt the sense of perfect righteousness, the sense of clear finality that emanated from the priest´s voice and gestures whenever he felt backed by the mighty wisdom of the King of Armenelos.

Then, Yehimelkor´s right sleeve fell back a little, and he saw the dark shadow of blood. Before he could even blink, or swallow a sudden anguish that gathered in his throat, it had disappeared under the white folds.

It was over. Of all the words he could say, of everything he would have wanted this man to know, Amandil knew that none would be heard. He was being told to leave the rooms where he had studied heavy books, knelt day after day in front of the fire to pray, and woken up at nights to see a familiar light burning in the adjoining rooms, as the austere priest kept his watches.

He could not ask him to understand. He could not tell him that he was sorry, for it had been his decision to make. He could not ask for forgiveness, for the God, as it appeared, had spoken.

And still, he realised with a jolt, there _was_ something that he could say. Swallowing deeply, he sank to his knees on the floor, and bowed thrice.

"I, Hannimelkor, thank you with all my heart for everything you have done for me." he recited, in a strong, ringing voice that he fought to keep steady. All of a sudden, he found that his awkwardness was gone, and everything he wanted to say fell from his lips easily. "You saved me, took me, taught me, named me, and let me go. For all those things, my gratitude is as deep and boundless as the ocean."

An unreadable emotion crossed Yehimelkor´s eyes, briefly warming their steely coldness. He gave him a tight nod.

"I will pray for you." he said. And with this he turned back, and walked inside his rooms with the silent irrevocability of a High Priest after a sacrifice.

 

 


	35. A Secret Wedding

He barely heard the mutterings behind his back as he took three sips from the cup of blue glass. Mutely, he handed it over the tray, and her pale hands trembled a little under the veil as she took it from him.

Amandil gazed behind the shadows, trying to read the expressions of the man and the woman who sat there, watching their daughter drink. Not to his surprise, they were frowning.

It had been Pharazôn, the last person in Númenor he would have asked for that kind of advice, who had told him to enter their house proudly and not put himself down. They had been very vocal at first, and even threatened to have him killed, but eventually they had come round. He was not sure if it had been because they had understood his situation, because Amalket had sworn to her mother that she would spread the rumours of her pregnancy herself if they refused their consent, or because of the liberal amounts of gold he had offered them. As planned, he had promised he would send further quantities, through "a friend" who was "a distinguished associate" of "his family of Gadir."

Belatedly, he had realised that he owed Pharazôn so many things now– not least his wedding, and maybe even the life of his child.

The hardest to manage had been Amalket´s father, a tall and strong man who believed himself to have influence in Armenelos, even though, as a guard, he was not even allowed to cross the inner threshold of the Palace. He also believed that his daughter could have done much better than some foreign merchant with a hawkish nose. Even after they had struck the accord –shamelessly enough- he had continued with his threats.

"I have _friends_ among the soldiers of Sor." he had said, surveying him with a particularly scathing look. "If you are doing this only to run away – believe me, you will only reach the shores of Middle-Earth as a rotten corpse washed upon the shore. Am I making myself clear?"

"Perfectly clear", Amandil replied, putting the restraint he had learned in the temple of Melkor to use. "You seem to think I would have needed to pay you a good bride price and marry your daughter to _escape_."

The suspicious look in the man´s face was barely altered by this logic.

"Maybe not. However, you may yetchange your mind."

"I am not letting go of a career of brilliant prospects at the Temple of Melkor just in order to _change my mind_ ", Amandil retorted, with an appropriately offended voice. This statement seemed to infuriate his father-in-law even further.

"You _dare_ complain? My daughter has been forced to let go of brilliant marriage prospects because of you!"

Their eyes met, and Amandil´s grey held a hard glint.

"I am not such a bad prospect." he said. To his surprise, the words came to his mouth with a natural pride, not with the forced bravado that he had envisioned himself using at his friend´s advice.

It even gave the other man some pause.

"You..." he muttered, pacing in circles. For a while, he kept opening and closing his mouth as he wondered how best to put it. "You are a _merchant_."

"Yes, I am. And in the colonies of Middle-Earth, there are no other nobles than us merchants. Once I am discharged from the Bay, she will be held in great honour there."

All this had not stopped them from frowning even at the very night of the wedding. But soon, at least, he would not have to care about that.

Slowly, he tried to relax. The room was dark and quiet, lighted by a few, scattered perfume candles. Only a small wooden statue of the Lady, painted in light colours and dressed in finery, presided over their wedding with a vague smile upon her lips.

"Well. "A woman´s pointed cough broke through the tense silence, and they put the cup back on the table. "Now, she is your wife."

* * * * *

After all the stolen nights they had spent in that very place, breathlessly listening for the barest sound of footsteps, the faintest flutter of robes, it was strange to sit there now with all lamps alight, upon a bed that smelled of perfume.

Amandil saw Amalket discard the veil, and turn a nervous smile in his direction. Her cheeks were covered in a soft blush, but she kept gazing at the bed with the same discomfort that he felt.

"This..." she whispered after a long, incommodating silence, "does not feel natural."

He laughed, as if her words had been some kind of cue to give free rein to his own emotions.

"Right now, I would feel more comfortable if I could breathe some fresh air."

She smiled, and nodded.

"It can be done."

Her mother and the servant were waiting in the corridor, and they stared at them in shock as they passed by, hand in hand, heading for the backyard. There, they lay on the moonlit porch, next to a fountain whose running waters soothed the nerves that had been tight with worry for so long.

"The moon will be full in a week." she mused aloud, laying her head upon his shoulder. Locks of oily, scented hair had escaped the tight lines of her headdress, and tickled the skin of his neck.

He looked at her belly. The curve of the stomach under the saffron robes was as slight and graceful as ever. Only the sollicitous hand that stroked it as she watched the skies bore witness to the presence of his baby in her womb.

"Do you really have to go?"

Amandil froze.

"Amalket..."

Her hand moved until it was laid upon his, flawless skin contrasting sharply with the burns and scars of the holy fire.

"Shhh. Do not take me wrong. I know why you did it!" she whispered. "Believe me, I do! You did it for me. For us." He relaxed. "But I wonder if... if we had just.... _left_..."

Amandil shook his head. Since he had chosen the path he would take, he had known that this question would come sooner or later – and that he would owe her an explanation.

"My family..." he began, then cleared his throat. "My family is not happy with me. I was consecrated when I was born, and if I lost my honour now and just –fled, they would curse me. I have to honour their arrangement and enter the Sacred Cave. "

As he said this, a part of him wondered if it could be more than one of those many well-crafted lies that he needed in order to survive. _What would his parents, in Sor, think of his actions?_

He had been a priest of Melkor for fifteen years, he thought, a familiar heavy weight sinking in his stomach like lead. Surely, if they had wanted to curse him, they would have done it already.

"And then, there is another reason", he continued, forcing himself to return to the matter at hand. "I know I told you that it was just a pretext. Maybe this is even what I believed back then, but now I feel that the... Lady is _truly_ claiming me."

Amalket hid her surprise behind her hands. Amandil wondered why it was so difficult to elaborate.

"Some _god_ brought us this child. There is no other explanation, "he continued, remembering Yehimelkor´s words to him in that last conversation. "A god that did not want me to remain in the service of the Temple of Armenelos. And then, the priests of the Lady decide to help me... I think it is a signal."

If he had told her the complete truth, if he had said that sometimes he doubted that the high being who had seen fit to make their lives a mess was counted among the gods of the Númenorean people, she would not have understood. She would maybe have been afraid.

As it was, she looked at him in newfound awe.

"Do you think she is.... protecting our child?" Her hand stroked her belly with an almost covetous insistence now.

"Maybe. She could have planned something for its future. Or mine. We should obey her wishes, and see what happens."

She turned back to gaze at the water, and slowly, her enthusiasm gave way to a thoughtful expression. When she looked at him again after a while, there was a tiny frown upon her forehead.

"They say that the priestesses of Ashtarte-Uinen are the most desired women in Númenor. I hope you are not thinking about that when you speak of _obeying her wishes_."

Amandil´s eyes widened at her accusation, but not in offense. Since the news of the baby had first shaken their lives, fear and worry seemed to have banished any jealous thoughts far from her mind. It was as if a part of her had been lost, and now that he felt it come back again he realised how much he had loved her for it.

"Priests of the Lady are forbidden to bed fellow priests – and priestesses", he informed. "If that regulation did not exist, the Forbidden Bay would probably have become a common brothel long ago."

"I hear it _is_ a common brothel already", she argued, sulkily.

"Then, why don´t you make sure that you keep an eye on me?" he challenged. "You can travel there. See me whenever you wish. If you pretend to be a pilgrim and we are careful enough, nobody will be the wiser."

All animosity forgotten, her eyes widened in pure glee.

"Really? I...I... _of course_ I will go!!"

Amandil nodded, heartened.

"They say that the Forbidden Bay is the most beautiful place in Númenor. The realm of the Love-goddess. It could be nice to meet there."

"Oh, just _wait_. I am going to have you expelled for indecent behaviour." Suddenly, she whipped around and kissed him. He leaned forwards, kissing her back.

When the kiss broke, her wedding headdress had fallen, and a more familiar light was beginning to set her features ablaze. Amandil had to swallow deeply – _was this the reason why he had chosen that path, after all?_

"I... am sorry that I have to leave so soon", he muttered, not really knowing what he was saying. "I would have liked... I would have preferred...."

"I know."

"I will send you money."

She laughed, pressing her body against his.

"People will think I am some nobleman´s mistress."

For a moment, a distant sense of alarm gave him pause, but it was drowned under a cascade of more immediate sensations.

"And what will you say to that?" he muttered between kisses. Her clear laugh rang in his ears again.

"I will make them terribly envious with stories about a handsome and mysterious rich man of the colonies." she said. He felt himself relax, and laughed back at the purposeful silliness in her voice. "I hope the child looks like you."

"Do you?"

Amandil had never seen himself as handsome. Most people stared at him and decided that he had to be some kind of foreigner, if not something worse, and his friend Pharazôn´s looks could outshine much better looking men than he. And then, of course, Yehimelkor would have scolded him for thinking of his personal appearance...

A small pang of sorrow made him wince. It would take long, to get used to the priest´s absence. It would take long to get used to so many things.

_The departure was scheduled for next week._

"Is something the matter?" Amalket whispered, giving him a worried look. Some of his thoughts, it seemed, had been reflected in his face.

He shook his head in dismissal, and proceeded to bury his face in her pale neck with a renewed, almost desperate hunger.

"Nothing." he groaned, as he felt his wife´s hands start to fumble with her clothes.

* * * * *

"So you are leaving."

The moon had set in a blaze of red behind the slopes of the Meneltarma, and the city of Armenelos lay in the quiet darkness that preceded dawn. In the gardens of the royal temple villa, the sound of nightbirds was already beginning to fade.

The traveler stared in disbelief at the cloaked figure that stood in front of him.

"I cannot believe that you actually _came_."

The figure made a gesture of impatience.

"But of course I came! My friend is leaving Armenelos for good, and you think I should have stayed in bed?"

Amandil shook his head, but did not speak. After a moment of slightly awkward silence, it was the other young man who spoke again.

"I am... going to miss practicing swordsmanship with you."

A faint smile.

"You are not going to improve at all without the challenge."

"You think so?" Pharazôn furrowed his brow, but suddenly his face lit up, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. "I will just have to travel to the Forbidden Bay myself, then. Now, _that_ would be an idea! I have heard they have the best priestesses in Númenor and the colonies... why, they told me the High Priestess can even...!"

"Now, now, stop making me jealous." Amandil interrupted him before he was subjected to a detailed description of one of his new superiors´s sexual prowess. "I will not be able to bed any of them."

Pharazôn rolled his eyes.

"Because of your _wife_?" he guessed. His friend shook his head.

"Because of the rules of the sanctuary."

The mocking expression turned, after a moment, to pity.

"Ah. Well."

Amandil shrugged. For a while, again, both struggled against the weight of the silence, closing their mouths when the words didn´t come to them. A breeze blew through the trees, stirring the lighter branches with a long, smothered hiss.

This time, it was Amandil who spoke first.

"I..." He swallowed. "I cannot possibly thank you enough. Everything you have done, making this marriage possible, providing all that gold..."

Pharazôn shook his head, with the slightly impatient, regal air that would come only to someone used to hearing similar words all the time. Amandil hoped that the darkness would hide the red in his face.

"Stop that already! You are my friend. "He smiled. "And I prefer it when you are being grumpy."

The blush in Amandil´s face became even more pronounced. He took a long breath.

"There are no words to convey how this is embarrassing to me... but after all you have done, I still must ask something else of you." His arms were crossed over his chest, and he glared at his companion. "Stop laughing at me!"

"What is it?" Pharazôn asked, the supressed smile still twinkling in his eyes. "Do you want me to keep your wife satisfied in your absence?"

Amandil did not even bother to make a reply. After knowing him for such a long time, he was aware that this was Pharazôn´s idea of a way to ease the tension.

"No, it is..."Their eyes finally met. "Will you protect my child? I am in no situation to do it myself, and I fear...."

"Oh, please. Do not tell me that _this_ was what all the fuss was about." The prince shook his head in disbelief. "As if I was not going to do it already! "For a moment, he seemed to sober, and his eyes took a steely glint. "May the King of Armenelos and the Lady of the Forbidden Bay rip my soul to pieces if I ever let any harm come to your child while I live."

Amandil nodded in silent gratitude. The sounds of the first conversation had broken somewhere in the nearby streets of the Eastern Hill.

"I am now completely in your debt, then."

"Yes, yes." Pharazôn waved it away again. "I hope it is a boy. A good fighter, like his father. I need men if I am ever to conquer Middle-Earth."

Amandil thought about that for a moment.

"I would prefer that, too. I will be so far away, and a girl... somehow, seems even more vulnerable."

His friend stared into the distance, searching for the first rays of light.

"Yes, they seem so.... "His voice trailed away, just as a strange expression flickered over his face, and he shook his head as if to dislodge a nagging thought. "But dawn is here. Come on! You should be going now."

Amandil nodded, and arranged the folds of his cloak. The Morning Star was the only one who still resisted the oncoming onslaught of brightness. Beyond the tiled roof that encircled them, he could imagine the silent, majestic city of Armenelos stretching under the mountain, with its labyrinthic streets and colourful domes.

_When would he see it again?_

"Farewell, then." he said, forcing his voice to ring clear and steady. "Farewell, my friend."

* * * * *

It was almost summer already, and the colourful and fragrant spring gardens had been abandoned in favour of the coolness of the fountains. It was there, sitting under the shade of two pine trees, that he found his mother, and she smiled at him as if she had expected his visit all along.

He ignored her silent invitation to sit.

"I would like to thank you in Amandil´s behalf." he spoke, meeting her amused, hazel eyes with his. "Without your help..."

Her laughter was as clear as the water spilling before them.

"Stop being so formal." She shook her head. "I know how fond you are of him; I had no other choice than to do what I could for his sake."

Pharazôn nodded.

"It must have been quite difficult to... speak to the King about this matter."

"Oh, on the contrary!" she exclaimed, making a sharp gesture of dismissal. "I told him that you both had become friends, and that I would do whatever it took to stop that Western fiend from corrupting my only son. The Lady, in her infinite graciousness, had heard my concerns and sent me a vision. We both agreed that killing him for no reason after fifteen years of public service in the Temple would be... unadvisable. Especially when he is under the protection of that phenomenon – what was his name?"

His son stared at her in disbelief.

"You told him _that_?"

"Why, of course! What would you have done, go to the King and ask him to _please_ help your _dear_ friend?" She shrugged, somewhat disappointedly. "You have the subtlety of a three year old."

A spark of indignation flickered in the young man´s eyes, though it was quickly replaced by an inquiring stare.

"I suppose I should not wonder if what you told the King was true."

Melkyelid sighed.

"You seem to have lost all trust in me. Even though I do nothing but help you, over and over again."

Pharazôn looked a little guilty at this. He shook his head violently.

"You..."

" I also have been in communication with your cousin once again." she changed the subject. "She gave me something for you."

"Stop your... your _meddling_!"

Melkyelid´s eyes narrowed.

"You did not mind my meddling when you needed it to help your friend."

"That was..." He looked lost for a moment, then forced himself to adopt a deliberately polite tone. "Please, do not interfere in my relationship with the young Princess of the West. This is my business."

"And what if she is careless enough as to come to _me?"_

Curiosity made a dent in Pharazôn´s determination.

"Did she?"

Melkyelid´s lips curved into a smile.

"She did. And she gave me this."

In spite of himself, the young man leaned forwards as he saw something glint in his mother´s hand. His breath caught as he checked it closer. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry he had seen in his life, if maybe not the most splendid. The gem looked like a large emerald at first sight, but it gleamed with the bluish hue of the Sea in summer, and the silvery material in which it was engraved had been wrought in the shape of small leaves, with a skill that surpassed that of the crafters of Gadir and Sor.

He swallowed, astounded.

"What the...?"

"This is something very ancient. I guess it is a family heirloom. "Melkyelid ventured with a delicate frown. "Any idea on why would she give it to you?"

"Did she say anything?" he asked, even more mystified than she was. The jewel felt strangely warm in the palm of his hand.

"Only that you might need it one day. But when I asked her why, she said that she did not know."

Pharazôn shook his head. Zimraphel was as strange as she was unpredictable. Almost as he thought this, he experienced a shiver, and a familiar feeling of longing that he had been repressing for months now. He clenched his teeth, furious at himself for thinking of her when he had sworn to himself that he wouldn´t.

"She probably wanted to spite her family for some reason or other. She does that quite often." he said, trying to sound casual and unconcerned. But he could tell that his mother, with her uncommonly sharp eyes, had noticed his inner struggle.

"I see. I would advise you not to wear it in public, then." she said. "There might be... consequences."

Pharazôn looked at her in outrage.

"I was not planning on... _wearing_ this thing." Its beauty was dazzling, and it felt so warm in his hand. _Like her_.

"I will put it in a box somewhere." he decided, pushing it inside his robes and offering her a curt bow. Melkyelid smiled pleasantly.

"That would be a good idea."

She probably had recognized his lie as easily as she always did. But still, she chose not to point this out to her son as he turned away from her, and left her gardens at a stormier pace than was strictly proper.


	36. The Lady´s Battle

After biding his time in the Forbidden Bay for years, Amandil receives iportant news that will change his life again. Thanks to Pandemonium for her help correcting this chapter!

 

# The Lady´s Battle

It was midday when the gates opened. The sound of many voices singing in a choir wafted from inside the temple, woven into the gusts of sea breeze. An ocean of heads and outstretched arms immediately gathered around, threatening to drown a figure in fluttering robes of blue, whose silver crown gleamed with pearls in the sunlight. She was raising her hands in the air, both frozen in a gesture of petrified might.

Amandil watched the statue of Ashtarte-Uinen as it was rocked left and right, in its slow and laborious procession through the petal-flooded avenue that led into the sands of the beach. Thousands of locals and pilgrims pressed around, trying to touch an inch of the fabric of her dress.

In the twenty years he had spent at the Forbidden Bay, he had never yet been allowed the honour of carrying the Lady to the sea for her trip, something for which he felt guiltily thankful. How did those priests avoid being crushed or suffocated by the mob was something that remained a mystery to him.

Above his head, the white houses of the outskirts shone, their front splendidly decorated with flower boughs and the sensuous scarlet fruits of the Goddess. Even further, the cloudless sky of the summer solstice stretched in an endless patch of radiant blue that matched the robes of the Lady, who received the homage of her faithful Bay this morning.

Amandil did not know when or how this festival had originated, but he knew that it was ancient. It sank its deep roots on a legend, a tale of much older days when maybe Númenor did not exist, and the world was shrouded in darkness. According to that tale, one of Darkness´s own creatures, a monstrous serpent of terrible and unpredictable moods known as Yam, had once held sway over the seas. In rebellion against Eru and the world, he had plunged them in a perpetual, raging gale, where no ship could sail, no fish could dive, and not even the Immortals could draw close.

In defiance of him, the Goddess had stood upon the shore, and stars pierced the clouds to shine on her crown. Their battle had lasted thirty years and thirty months, and its clatter could be heard in the far ends of the world. At its end, the serpent had been subdued, and Ashtarte-Uinen had become the Queen of the Seas. That was why, once a year, a painstakingly carved and painted image of the Lady of the Sanctuary was dressed in all her finery and put on a ship that drifted away from the shore, in commemoration of her feat and her victory.

Though it was too crowded for Amandil to see much in front of him anymore, he felt the soft crunch of the sand under his feet, and realised that they had arrived to the beach. Now the multitude would disperse in all directions, and stand on the shore to watch the Lady´s departure. He remembered the first time that Amalket had seen this, how she had followed the boat´s trail with awed eyes while she took advantage of the crowd pressing around them to lean against his shoulder. Out of an impulse, he sought around him for the hundredth time, in search of a glimpse of soft brown hair and honey eyes.

He swallowed, wondering why he felt so disappointed. He had known, hadn´t he, that she would not come. Since the untimely death of her father, the force of circumstances had tied her to her frail mother´s side. _And their son..._

For a moment, he remembered the flustered face of a young, dark haired boy of ten, seeing his father for the first time.

" _Hannishtart?" Amandil jumped as he heard the voice of the senior priest behind his back. "You are not supposed to be talking to the pilgrims when your duty lies in the Cave!"_

_A hungry, last look, carefully schooled into a vacant expression. A polite bow._

" _I hope you will find your way from here, foreigners."_

He would be around twenty, now. A man, he thought, almost incredulously. Would he have joined the Guard, as his grandfather before him?

Distracted, he watched the crowd scatter around the shore, and walked towards the circle of priests who were preparing the boat that would carry the image. He knew better than to approach them and offer his help: he was barely worthy to be in the procession. The special goodwill of the Lady had granted him the first two of the five degrees he ought to achieve, but the high priests here, just as those of the god-he-could-not-name-anymore before them, had not forgotten his lineage. Nor the fact that the rich extensions of lands in the West that were now theirs had once belonged to his family.

Still, he had to admit that, compared to the temple of the Great God in Armenelos, life in the Forbidden Bay was freedom. Beauty alone was truly worshipped in the ancient Eldanna: to tend to the Lady´s silk embroideries, her complicated hairdresses, the sorting of the precious offerings of rich visitors and the rare flowers, trees and plants of the sacred gardens were the only religious duties of the priests of the Cave. Asides from this, they were allowed to train in the military arts by a warrior High Priest who set enough store in being prepared for combat –even though his dangerous neighbours had now gone-, their practice disturbed now and then by the crystalline laughter of the priestesses who spied on them.

The notes of a song broke around him, and Amandil knew that the boat was now ready. Together with the thousands of people who surrounded him, he watched how they set it free, and how, slowly and clumsily, it began to sail. The wooden statue leant dangerously to the left for a moment, pushed by the waves, then regained its balance. Sunlight casted dazzling reflections upon her crown.

Blinded by their light, he closed his eyes, and suddenly felt a strange sensation creeping over him. It was a pang of anguish, like mourning for someone that he did not know had died. The waves crashed behind his back, and he was sitting on that boat, his fist clenched over a rope as he forced himself to surrender to the mysterious, windless pull that took him away from the shore.

He blinked, and then it was gone. He was standing on the beach, and everybody around him was singing as the boat drifted farther away and, in spite of the winds and the currents, headed straight West.

* * * * *

As he knelt before the Cave´s dark altar to replace the burning inciense, sounds of laughter and merrymaking reached Amandil´s ears from the distance. Outside this humid, secluded place people were feasting on the beach, eating and drinking until their bodies could hold no more. Once, he remembered wistfully, he had done it with Amalket – the only hour of unrestrained bliss that they had shared since their secret wedding had been full of drunken cries and elbows and the ocassional flying object.

Standing on top of her mountain of sacred boughs, the statue of the Lady loomed over him with her smile of frozen ivory. He left the silver casket before her feet and bowed to her nervously, as he would a living Queen.

Sometimes, he could not help but feel that such a magnificent being had to be alive in some form. Were those eyes, filled to the brim with silent acceptance, truly fixed on him as he walked away?

Almost at the same time, he scoffed at his own imagination. _After all those years!_ The gods of Númenor despised him.

"Hannishtart."

The whispered word broke the sanctuary´s spell of quietude, forcing him to blink his musings away. He bowed thrice, and turned back to meet the gentle face of a young priestess.

Nodding in silence, she moved towards the gate, and he followed her. Outside, the shadows had become long, and the Sun reminded him of a great ball of fire plunging into the waves.

"What do you want?" he asked, as both waded past the closest groups of faithful with garlands on their hair. She walked slowly, as all priestesses did, with small and graceful steps, and he had to do a conscious effort to tame his long strides.

"His Holiness sent me to find you", she replied, recoiling in horror as a flying jet of wine made a purple stain on her tunic. "He – oh, how I hate this!- wants to tell you something."

Amandil frowned, surprised. It was very rare that the High Priest would want to speak to him; in fact, all the priests of rank seemed to make a point of ignoring him as much as possible. The Forbidden Bay was the centre of power in the West of the Island; politics were nearly as important here as they were in Armenelos. Anyone found consorting with the heir of the ancient neighbour and rival, convicted for treason, would not have a very bright future.

Back in the capital, Amandil had realized soon after his departure, Yehimelkor had been quite reckless to become his protector. Nobody in this sanctuary was willing to take such a risk, but after all that had happened to him in the past, for Amandil this had so far been a relieving experience more than anything else. He had no need for any more conflicted feelings.

The avenue that headed towards the temple where they lived was still covered in dirty and trampled flower petals. A cool breeze whispered on the tree branches, already obscured from sight as they reached the building.

Thanking his companion for her trouble, Amandil went to his room and cleaned himself thoroughly. He also changed his robes, and combed his hair –Yehimelkor had been right, it tended to be in disorder- before he finally decided he was presentable enough for an audience with the holy Itashtart. He knocked at his door, and waited in perfect silence and a swiftly beating heart until he was summoned.

"Enter."

The elderly man was sitting on his desk, busy with some papers. In spite of the lines of his face and the grey of his hair, he still had the bearing of a warrior. The first time that Amandil had laid eyes on him, he recalled with a jolt, he had felt more affinity with this man than he had with the priests of Armenelos in fifteen years, but Itashtart –not unsurprisingly- had never wanted anything to do with him.

_Until now._

Amandil knelt on the floor and bowed, keeping a respectful silence until he was addressed. He heard a loud rustling of papers, then, finally, a grave voice addressing him.

"Raise your head."

He obeyed and sat back on his feet in the most comfortable position he could manage. Itashtart was staring at him, just as intensely as he crushed a discarded draft on his fist or shattered his wooden targets in arms practice.

"I will be quick and direct", he announced, picking up a new document and playing with it in his hand. "There will be an army leaving the harbour of Sor by the end of the month, and our people are going to be on it. The King wants new temples to be consecrated in the vicinity of Umbar, to keep away the shadow of Barad-dûr. Abdashtart will lead them, and he has requested you to be on the party."

Amandil´s eyes widened, and he had to forcefully suppress a start. Whatever he had been imagining, it had not been this.

"I had to agree. I have followed your arms practice, and there is no one here who is half as good as you are."

The young man could not muster the wits to be thankful for this unexpected praise. He was too busy analysing this new situation.

Many years after he arrived to the Western sanctuary, he had to admit, his wish to travel eastwards had remained undimmed. Pharazôn had visited several times –paid his respects to the Lady on behalf of his family-, but he never brought anything more than the usual news. In the end, Amandil had decided to banish those foolish hopes from his mind, at least for the time being.

_Now, however..._ A blind excitement began coursing through his veins. He would see Pharazôn, and Amalket, and his son. _He would see the world._ The prison that had held him for so long would be broken.

_And yet..._

"Thank you very much, Your Holiness", he recited, trying to keep his voice carefully devoid of any emotion. Why had he been summoned alone? "I will uphold the honour of this sanctuary."

"I thought it was me who was supposed to say that", Itashtart remarked, but then waved his apology away in some impatience. "Never mind. You are surely aware that not many people trust you, here or in the East."

Amandil swallowed deeply. _So there it was._ His glance became fixed on a dot of the floor.

"I solemnly swear to you that –"

Itashtart waved his words away once again.

"I know what you are going to say. You are trustworthy. However, it is not enough if you say it, you must prove it as well. And this is a good opportunity to do so."

Amandil nodded in silence. He was beginning to understand. It was not only his fighting skills what had made his superiors choose him for this mission.

He thought he could guess the relief of the High Priests once that such a compromising novice was safely away from their hands, beyond the Eastern Sea, and maybe getting killed by Orcs or barbarians. This was their answer to the King´s manouevres.

He, once again, was right in the middle of it.

As he spoke again, he did his utmost to sound as thankful as he could, bowing several times and promising not to disappoint. Deep inside, he was convincing himself that he should not care about what they thought as long as this would enable him to see his family, his friend, and the vast shores of a land that had meant freedom to him since he was a mere child who was taken away from his parents.

A strange dizzyness took him, so strong that he was almost forced to close his eyes. _Could it be this, what that morning´s vision had announced?_

"You may retire for now." the High Priest dismissed him. He bowed deeply once again, then stood up and headed towards the door.

Out of an impulse, he broke into a run, causing two priestesses to shriek in surprise as he almost crashed against them. Barely stopping to breathe an apology, he pushed the door of his room open with a loud clang, and grabbed his sword. The weight felt familiar and comfortable in his right hand.

At night the practice grounds were usually empty, as it was impossible to see an inch apart from one´s nose. Amandil was not deterred. They said it was like this in the deep recesses of Middle-Earth, where Orcs crawled and waited for their enemies to wander off. Their eyes could pierce the darkness to hunt for flesh, and if he gave them a chance they would feast on it. The fact that he was a priest of the Lady would matter as little to them as it did to the holy Itashtart and his counsellors.

Thrusts alternated with parries, with a ferocity that would have sent a real opponent reeling against the walls. Amandil had no lack of those in the Forbidden Bay, and each one of them had fallen to his blade. That had not helped him make friends, either.

Many times, he had wished fervently for Pharazôn to be there, to face him with his unbreakable vanity. He remembered the boy in the Temple, the gleam of determination in his eyes whenever he struggled to his feet and demanded another round. The prince was also a true warrior, one who wouldn´t hesitate if fate brought him to the ancient enemy´s black gates. How he would envy Amandil for being sent where he himself had always wanted to be, into the thick of the battle!

_No poisoned gift would have been able to daunt him, either._

"Hannishtart", a voice spoke behind his back. Startled away from his thoughts, he froze and turned towards its source.

It was a young priest, about ten years younger than Amandil himself. He had been among those who engaged in arms practice daily, a pale-faced would-be warrior who held his sword too tightly and tensed his limbs too much. Amandil had floored him a couple of times, and after that he had sought less intimidating challenges.

"Eshmounazer", he greeted him, putting his practice sword aside. "What brings you here at this late hour? The feast must be getting quite rowdy by now."

"I was wondering..." The young man advanced a few steps, and Amandil could hear their echo in the growing darkness. "Have you heard of the... summons? The summons to the mainland, I mean."

"Are you coming, too?" Amandil wiped his forehead, and looked closer at him. Eshmounazer´s eyes were brimming with some emotion. "I see. Did you come to test your skills before our departure?"

"Not really." The dismissal sounded hasty, as he raised both hands. "I... knew you had to be coming, of course. They wouldn´t leave someone like you behind!"

"I´m not too good at consecrating temples", Amandil retorted dryly, thinking of all the problems that suddenly arose whenever it seemed like he might apply for the next degree of priesthood. "I´m not holy enough."

"But we aren´t going there just to consecrate temples! We will take part in the battles, like the others", Eshmounazer insisted. "Even if we don´t, the battle will be exactly where we are."

_And someone won´t be praying for my safety,_ Amandil thought to himself. 

"That´s so", he replied. Someone was lighting the lamps at the other side of the yard, and under their light he finally saw the anxiety in Eshmounazer´s face. "Is something worrying you?"

"Why are you always so brave?" the younger man suddenly burst, unable to keep it to himself for any longer. "Nothing ever affects you. Not even the idea of..."

"... fierce barbarians and Orcs who will eat you or tear you to pieces?" The words echoed harshly in the night, and Amandil realized his rudeness. He had been rememebering a child who had been alone in a temple, searching the darkness for signs of Orcs and Balrogs who would come to get him.

Then again, Orcs and Balrogs were said to be terrible, but here in Númenor the will of one man was enough to kill him.  _That_ threat was hanging continuously above his head, but it would never face him head on.

"Aren´t you afraid of them eating _you_?"

"Not if I have my sword", he replied. That, at least, depended on him. "And you should think the same. Isn´t that why you learned to wield it?"

"I never thought I would be sent to _Middle-Earth_! Maybe fight some rebels from Andúnië, but even they are gone now. Númenor is a peaceful realm."

"The colonies are part of Númenor, too."

"I forgot. That´s where you are from, aren´t you?" Eshmounazer seemed to forget his worries for a moment to give him a curious look. "You´d be... going home."

Amandil thought of Armenelos, the home of his hidden wife and son and the man who would never set eyes upon him again. Then, he thought of Sor, and the prisoners who spent their lives in the upper floors of merchant palaces.

"Yes", he nodded. "You could say that."

"I see. I´m... happy for you, then. See you." Eshmounazer waved to him, and started walking towards the lights of the porch. Amandil watched him leave in silence, until the words that had been so slow in coming finally found their way through his mouth.

"Believe in your strength and your training. If you do that, you will feel much better."

Eshmounazer stopped in his tracks. He seemed to think of this as he wiped his eye with the back of his left hand, then shrugged.

"It seems easier when you say it."

_It seems easier when you´ve been afraid since you were a child._ Amandil smiled tersely.

"With the help of the Lady, we will manage", he said, waving at his companion´s retreating figure. Then, he knelt to pick back his sword, and resumed his thrusts with renewed ferocity.


	37. Heading East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elendil has an Adûnaic name in Tolkien´s canon, Nimruzîr. Obviously I couldn´t use it here, as it´s a literal translation of his Quenya name, which basically would mean "Traitor".

Note: Elendil has an Adûnaic name in Tolkien´s canon, Nimruzîr. Obviously I couldn´t use it here, as it´s a literal translation of his Quenya name, which basically would mean "Traitor".

Many thanks to Russandol for picking the nits.

 

**Heading East**

 

 

They were to leave the Forbidden Bay at dawn, when the town was still asleep and the roads empty of pilgrims. Before the first light had pierced the shadows of the eastern sky, the departing host assembled at the candle-lit Cave, to sing hymns to the Goddess with wreaths of flowers upon their heads. Amandil´s voice joined the rest, and the sound coming from two hundred throats echoed powerfully within the stone walls.

The Lady stood above them, atop her pearl-incrusted moon and the mountain of green boughs of return. She did not seem to be looking at him as she usually did, maybe because the fumes of incense obscured her face. Or maybe because no ship would bear him back, the dark thought crossed his mind, but he tightened his hand on the pommel of his sword and forced himself to forget the dreams where the current always pulled him away from the shore.

After the prayer they drifted towards the paved courtyard, where they saddled and mounted their horses. Amandil had been given a stubborn grey mare, which he had been cleaning and feeding for the last days in the hope that she would grow used to him. As when he attempted to be a dutiful priest of Melkor or of Ashtarte-Uinen, however, his efforts had passed largely unnoticed, and the mare writhed and almost threw him down before she submitted with ill-grace.

The streets were largely deserted at that hour, though now and then a curious face would peer from a window. Sleepy-faced vendors were building their stands at the side of the road, and they glared at them in startled resentment as they pulled their marchandise away from the horses´s hooves. Abdashtart rode at the head of the column, yelling at them to keep their pace up.

After a while, the town was left behind and they entered the forest paths, which were paved with flattened earth instead of stone. The scarlet fruits grew there in greater profusion, as did the golden _mallorn_ trees that, according to Amandil´s mother, grew in what used to be their home up North. _One day we will go back and see them,_ she had always promised, but the King would rather kill them all.

Little by little, the winding road was gaining height. As they left the trees behind, Amandil looked down and saw the beach, a radiant white plain that nobody had yet defiled since it emerged from the waves, the gift that the Sea laid at the Lady´s feet twice a day. The waters of the bay were golden and rose-coloured, and he had to look away before his eyes started to water. Around him, everything seemed dark by comparison.

As Abdashtart reminded them whenever he opened his mouth, they were expected in Armenelos in the fourth day, and they needed to make haste. Pauses were therefore scarce, and at night many a grumbling young man complained that they had barely closed their eyes when they were made to open them again. The inns built by Ar-Adunakhôr to ease the muster of forces across the island lay abandoned for the most part, and more than once they were made to huddle on the floor of some chilly hall where no fire had burned for a hundred years. Amandil preferred to sleep with the horses, as there it was at least warm. His mount was still giving him the cold shoulder, but there were others that did not mind him curling next to them. Other priests followed his example, but they would come in groups and not pay him much attention.

The second night, as he fell asleep among snorts and whispers and the smells of cheap wine and warm manure, he had that dream again. He was standing on the stern of a boat, and Númenor was behind him, steadily growing smaller in the distance. A feeling of great loss washed over him, so strong that he could remember it well into the next day. But when he turned towards the prow he woke up shaking, unable to remember what had scared him so much.

After that, however, there were no more dreams. Too many things filled his mind to wonder about visions that came in the night, and soon they started to seem irrelevant in broad daylight. They were riding through the plains of Mittalmar, and the white shadow of the Meneltarma was cast against the horizon.

_Armenelos was drawing close._

Amandil did not remember it being so large, or having so many buildings. In his thoughts it had shrunk, becoming a single house where two women and a boy lived, and a temple with fires and corridors that sometimes seemed more of a dream than even the boat nightmares.

"Weren´t you a priest there, Hannishtart?"

It was Eshmounazer, who pointed towards a domed building that stood on the top of the farthest hill of the city. Many young priests had never seen such a sight before, and they were pointing excitedly or either staring at the King´s capital with looks of the purest awe. Amandil looked at the white towers, no bigger than his fingers at that distance, and the golden dome between them, right where the Fire burned day and night under the watchful look of the novices. Memories came crashing into his mind, of the endless nights, the hurting knees, the furtive escapades, the sound of muttered prayers in the neighbouring room and above all, the fear, of fire and discovery and the cold eyes of the old man sitting on a throne.

"Long ago, yes. Before I was claimed by the Lady."

He knew that Eshmounazer would have asked more questions, if that hadn´t been too rude. Tongues had wagged since the day that he appeared at the Forbidden Bay, straight from the service of the King of Armenelos, but only the senior priests knew the truth about him. _Or what they thought to be the truth._

None of them knew that Amalket lived in a house next to the Palace hill, raising a boy who was his.

"There are no more inns. If we don´t get to the city before nightfall, you´ll be sleeping under the stars tonight!" Abdashtart threatened from the front. Amandil gathered his reins, and reluctantly, the grey mare resumed her pace.

* * * * *

It was night when they entered the city, just as it had been thirty-five years ago. This time, however, the vendors called to them as they crossed the narrow streets, and women in coloured veils smiled from the corners. Amandil ignored them, but others paused, with looks that reminded him of his friend Pharazôn.

"Those are not even courtesans", he said to nobody in particular, though Eshmounazer heard him and turned away, looking flustered.

They were to spend the night between four inns at the flat hollow in the city centre, not too far from the Palace hill. From there they would be summoned on the following morning, and they would have wished they had slept then, as Abdashtart warned in dire tones, but most young priests had left the inn barely five minutes after he had turned his back on them. Armenelos was the capital and the jewel of Númenor, and there nights were as bright as days. Wine houses, taverns and brothels awaited, ready to welcome the visitors at each turn of the street.

Amandil was glad of the opportunity to leave the place unnoticed. He threw his cloak over his shoulders, and took a cobbled street that stretched uphill. It was a side route, and it was empty except for a group of early drunks that huddled in front of a small door, which stood open and casting an orange glow over the pavement. When Amandil hurried past them, someone pointed at him and laughed. He wondered if it could be one of the people he had met in Pharazôn´s infamous feasts. He imagined them sitting inside with their cups, as if time had stopped for them when he left, their glances still unfocused as they paused in their song to follow the cadence of a woman´s legs.

The house was also standing right where he remembered it; a small, two-storied building painted in white, with a balcony where he had used to throw pebbles to alert of his secret visits. A lamp was burning inside, casting a dim radiance over the clay lattice. Under its light, he could see that the jasmine plant had almost reached the third floor by now. As he stood in front of the door and knocked, sweet-smelling petals fell over his cloak.

A light flickered in a window to his left, then went out. Amandil was debating whether he should announce his name, feeling again like the guilty intruder who shouldn´t draw attention to himself. In a sense, it was so – walls had ears in Armenelos, and the latticed windows above the street were as many manned sentry posts.

The light flicked on again. A soft rustling sound reached his ears from behind the door, and suddenly it creaked open, and a wrinkled face peered through.

She was smiling.

"My lady was beginning to worry", she said, beckoning him in.

* * * * *

"Who told you I was coming?"

Everything had happened too quickly at first to make sense of Amalket´s servant´s welcome, or Amalket´s beautiful new dress or her carefully painted face. There had been tears, and kisses, and embraces that tore his thoughts into shreds and left them hanging while he hugged her to his chest and muttered back her own words at her. But then, she caught his hand in hers and led him to a table that seemed to be sagging under the weight of meats and fruits, and the questions grew back.

"Your providers sent word."

"My...?" The words died in his lips, and he stopped for a moment to ponder this. His providers were his father´s associates in Armenelos, who took care of his wife while he was serving the Goddess in the Forbidden Bay. His real father, of course, was not a merchant but a prisoner in Sor, and he had no associates in Armenelos or anywhere else. Pharazôn was behind it all, but Amandil couldn´t imagine how he might have known about...

"Come on!" Amalket complained, tugging at his hand. She was a fully-grown woman, a mother and the head of a household for years. A few lines had appeared in her face since the last time he had seen her, and yet she seemed to have become a girl again as soon as she laid eyes on him.

Realizing that it was useless to think about it now, and even more so to obsess over the implications of anyone in the Palace having heard of his choosing - _Pharazôn could have just decided he had to be in the party, since he had a high opinion of his skills, or maybe even his mother, the Princess of the South, had had it from someone, since she had been a priestess of the Lady_ -, Amandil followed her towards the table. Just at that moment, her servant appeared with an old woman leaning on her arm. Her back was bent, and she walked very slowly.

"Look, Mother! See who is here!" Amalket shouted, though he was obvious enough, standing in the middle of the room with his hand in hers.

"Mother", he bowed courteously. She stared at him for a long while, and he marvelled at how age had preyed on her so soon. Amalket said in her letters that she was ill, and now that he saw her frailty for himself, he could believe it.

After a while, she nodded in a vague way, allowing herself to be led towards a chair.

"How are your vows going?" Amalket asked him. "Will you have all five of them soon?"

"Soon", he lied. He was as close to becoming a full priest as he had been the last time, and even after he had achieved all five vows the permission to leave the Cave would never be granted. It would be more useful to wait for Ar-Gimilzôr to be taken by the Darkness, but of course he could not say that to Amalket. The lies were necessary, and yet they brought a weight upon his chest.

One day, she would have to know. She was the mother of the child who was sent by some power -and deep inside, he knew that even if he was fated to spend his whole life among shadows, her son would come to the light.

"You must be really high up in the temple, if they chose you to consecrate holy sanctuaries in Middle-Earth!" she chattered as he sat down. "Your blessings must be able to kill Orcs and drive the darkness away. And they trust you to keep the King´s soldiers safe, too!" Her expression suddenly sobered, and a crease appeared on her forehead. "Still, you must promise that you will be careful. Middle-Earth is dangerous, and there are plenty of evils there. I wouldn´t want anything bad to happen to you!"

"I will be safe." Another lie. "But where is our son? I am very eager to see him."

Amalket took a wine jar and poured into his cup. The smell was spicy and sweet.

"Halideyid should be back soon. He´s been teaching swordsmanship to the sons of the Palace Guards, but he promised he would make haste."

"Teaching... swordsmanship?" Amandil was surprised at this. He held the cup at a distance from his lips, staring at the lumps of cinnamon that swirled inside the liquid. "You know that if you need more money, you only have to..."

"We don´t need more money!" she cut him fiercely. He looked up; he had not expected such a reaction. "He needs to join the Guards, that´s what he needs, and that´s what they´re making him do. So it´s his duty, and he´s getting nothing for it."

"If my lady´s father was alive, things would be different", the other woman huffed. "He would have had his arms at sixteen and he wouldn´t have to teach no snotty-nosed kids."

"I like it", a voice said from the corridor. Amandil left the cup on the table with a sharp noise, and turned towards the doorstep.

"Halideyid!" Amalket´s voice was laden with reproach. "You´re all... sweaty, and dirty, and your father is here!"

"But you told me to make haste", he argued, coming in. Then, he looked past his mother, and saw him sitting on the table. He stopped in his tracks, and his features sobered carefully. "Father."

Amandil blinked. For a while, that seemed to stretch shamefully long, he could do little else than that. The last time that he had seen him, it had been more than ten years ago. He remembered a tall boy, with a large nose and curious grey eyes. Now, however...

The man who stood in front of him, wrapped in a blue cloak, had the sharp features of the Andúnië line, or at least those of his father and the father of his father that Amandil barely remembered. Dark hair fell freely down his shoulders, like Amandil´s, but his looked more dishevelled than his father had ever been. That was because of the beard that covered the lower half of his face, still too new to be combed but too grown to pass unnoticed.

And still, what had struck Amandil the most was his height. As he stood in the middle of the room, the top of his head almost touched the ceiling, and he had needed to bow to cross the threshold of the door. He was taller than him, taller than any man he had ever seen, with long and lanky legs and arms that seemed to hang at his sides. When he stood up to greet him, Amandil was forced to look up to meet his eyes, and he felt briefly ridiculous.

"You have grown", he muttered -and this, too, felt ridiculous. Fortunately, Amalket took his uncomfortableness for sheer admiration, and beamed.

"Yes, our son has become quite the tall, powerful man! When we walk together, people take him for my husband!"

She would rather look like his daughter, at least from behind, running to keep up with his strides. Amandil´s mother had told him once that Elves were tall as trees, and also that they were descended from them thousands of years ago. But Elves had no beards or dishevelled hairs or sweaty cloaks. This was a Man... his own son.

"Welcome to Armenelos, Father", Halideyid said, feeling self-conscious under his stare. Amandil noticed and looked away, searching for his cup while the young man sat in front of him. He had a strange way of sitting, sideways, with both legs stretched to the right and his upper body bent in the opposite direction, so as to be in line with the table. If he sat normally his knees would bump against the surface, Amandil realized.

"Hello, Grandmother." The old woman smiled back at him, as he took the wine jar and started pouring on a cup. Liquid spilled to the sides, and Amalket stood up again.

"I will do that", she offered, in a tone that brooked no discussions. "Hannishtart, please, we are eager to hear about your journey."

"Is it true you are being sent to Middle-Earth?" Halideyid asked, dropping a piece of bread over the spice bowl. It wasn´t an isolated incident; during the meal he spilled a cup, dropped a pear on his lap and sent a knife flying into the bread basket. Amandil might have blamed it on embarrassment, but he noticed that Amalket and the other women seemed used to this clumsy behaviour. Watching him, he had the feeling that the young man´s arms were too long for his movements.

For a long while, he was the one who did most of the talking, while Halideyid and the women listened and ate in silence. He told them what little he had heard about the recent manouevres of Mordor, the problems in the colonies and the summons that had come to the Cave. Then, he told them of the journey East, and what lay ahead of them.

"So you are leaving tomorrow already?" Amalket asked, dismayed. "I thought..."

"We bought food for a week", the servant nodded. "Well, at least we can prepare it for the journey..."

"Adiba, if Father came back to his quarters with a bag of homemade food instead of a hangover there would be plenty of questions", Halideyid intervened. For a moment his eyes met Amandil´s, and he rushed to fill his cup again.

As they were finishing, someone knocked at the door. Amandil felt concerned for a moment, but Amalket shook her head and sent Adiba to answer it. She came back announcing the arrival of two boys for swordmanship class, and Halideyid stood up at once.

"If you would excuse me..."

"Couldn´t you have arranged it for another day?" Amalket asked, her hands on her hips.

"It was impossible. They already come everyday, and their parents..."

"I do not mind", Amandil interrupted the argument, smiling. Halideyid bowed and left, and he turned towards his frowning wife. "In fact, I think I would... like to take a peek. Just for a while."

Her frown dissolved.

"Oh." She thought about this in silence, then she looked at him again. She seemed suddenly embarrassed. "Hannishtart... I think that he... he _wants_ to like you." A blush covered her cheeks. "But he has only seen you once, and it´s not your fault but..."

Amandil winced.

"He doesn´t know me." _And it was true for both of them._

"Go and see him, then", she urged, standing up and piling one plate in top of another. "I´ll be waiting for you later."

Amandil nodded, grabbed his cloak and walked out of the room. He did not remember the way to the backyard very well, so he took some false turns through the dark corridors until the sound of voices and the clash of wooden swords finally reached his ears. The night was warm, and he found he had no need of the cloak he had brought. He walked gingerly through the wooden planks of the porch, not wanting them to creak under his feet and provoke an interruption. It was his house, and still he could not help feeling like an intruder.

_He has only seen you once._

Halideyid was standing under the lamplight, holding a wooden sword. The two boys stood in front of him right where a fountain used to be years ago, under a cherry tree that looked strangely forlorn after its petals had scattered through the yard. They had to be around twelve or thirteen, the age that he and Pharazôn were when they had taken on the eighteen old son of the Palace armsmaster.

"Imagine that you fancy a girl, but she likes another boy", Amandil´s son was saying. If he had noticed him sitting there, he chose to give no sign of it. "Your opponent has heard about it, so when you are in the middle of the fight, he suddenly taunts you about it. How would you feel?"

"I would be angry. I would want to shut his fat mouth", one of the boys said. The other boy nodded in agreement.

"And embarrassed, if other people were listening", Halideyid supplied. After a long moment of hesitation, both boys nodded this time.

"Now imagine that you have skipped your archery class. Your opponent saw that you were not there, and in the middle of the fight he tells you that you are in huge trouble and that everybody was looking for you. Wouldn´t you be uneasy?"

Another nod.

"If you let anyone take you by surprise in this manner, you will lose track of what you are doing, and even if it´s just for a moment, you will forget everything you have been taught and grow careless. Then they will have an opening to defeat you."

Amandil was listening with the same interest as the two boys.

"Keeping your emotions in check is a very important part of swordfighting, and you have to be very careful about it. You mustn´t let your opponent take you at unawares about anything. "Halideyid closed his eyes. "Do like me. Close your eyes and remember all the things that worry you."

"Well... we´re going to be tested in archery tomorrow, and..."

"Not like that! You have to do it in silence, only to yourself."

The boy´s mouth snapped shut, and both of them stood still for a while. Amandil noticed, however, that their lips were moving in silence.

"Now, you are prepared. Try to fight me. Meanwhile, you can try to distract him if you know how."

One of the students, the one who had talked about the test, fell into a stance, and Halideyid did the same. Their fight was unequal since the beginning, as Halideyid did nothing but parry the attacks. Still, Amandil was admired at his sudden transformation. The clumsy young man whose arms and legs were too long and unwieldy to pour wine on a dinner table wielded the sword with astonishing ease. No movement was longer or shorter than it had to be, no step superfluous.

"I-I saw Imil kissing another boy last night!", the second boy cried.

"I know that´s a lie, you´re making it up to..."the one who fought began, but he could never finish the sentence because Halideyid got him first.

"See? You can´t afford to be distracted!"

"But I didn´t believe him!" the boy complained, rubbing his shoulder. The other laughed triumphally.

"You fell for it, you fell for it!"

"Anything that takes your full attention away from the sword you´re wielding is a distraction. It doesn´t matter if you believed him or not, you looked away and paid him more attention than the fight. Try again!"

Amandil stayed there for the whole lesson, so absorbed by everything they said and did with such that he wasn´t even aware of the hour. When Halideyid informed that it was over, he was surprised.

As the boys crossed the porch to go back inside, they saw him for the first time, and they paused to look at him curiously. They were just boys, but Amandil felt uncomfortable under their stares.

"Come on", Halideyid urged them.

One of them turned away quickly, though the other stole another glance at him.

"By the way, my father will pay you tomorrow," he heard him say before the three of them disappeared down the corridor. Halideyid began answering something, but their voices died soon after.

When the young man walked back into the porch, Amandil was stretching his legs under the tree.

"Your mother said that you weren´t being paid," he said, then winced at the accusing edge in his tone. He wanted to know his son, not argue with him.

Halideyid held his glance.

"She wasn´t lying. What I did before, it was my duty. This I do for money." He paused for a moment, as if to think, and his voice became lower. "Grandmother is not well, and medicines do not grow in Númenor. They have to be brought from the mainland, and it´s expensive."

"I can arrange..."

"I know that you are rich, but I am fully grown now, and I found no need to trouble you about things I can solve on my own." There was pride in Halideyid´s tone as he said those words, and something about it made Amandil unpleasantly aware that the money he sent to that house wasn´t his in the first place.

"I see", he muttered. Then, he remembered a different subject. "Are you going to enter the Palace guards, then?"

"That would make Mother happy. And your associates would never have to send money again." Halideyid knelt to pick the wooden swords that he and the boys had discarded on the floor after the practice session. "But Grandfather died when I was still young, and my birthright isn´t very... clear."

"Why so?" Amandil inquired. He had a suspicion.

"Well..." Though his son had already picked up everything, he kept his back turned to him. He wandered around, pretending to be looking for something else. "People can´t help but wonder..."

"About me." It wasn´t a question. "In spite of the unfortunate circumstances, my family is respectable enough. My associates can prove it for you." _Pharazôn would help, if he told him about it._

"I know", Halideyid finally turned to face him. "The problem is, I don´t know if they would appreciate having any associates proving anything near their quarters. Mother says you are a good swordsman. Could we..?"

"Oh. Of course." Amandil was trying to make sense of what his son had said, and the request took him by surprise. He grabbed the sword just before it fell.

Halideyid seemed pleased at this. He fell into a stance in front of him, and Amandil did the same. His son´s height reminded him involuntarily of the times he had faced much older boys, back when he was a boy himself.

"So...who are you in truth?"

For a fraction of a second, Amandil was vaguely aware of having lowered his weapon on or two inches. Then, he felt a strong impact and saw it whirl away from him, crashing against the wall with a sharp noise. Pain exploded in his fingers and spread through his arm.

"Sorry", Halideyid said. Amandil bit back a groan, cursing to himself.

_If you let anyone take you by surprise in this way, you will lose track of what you are doing._

"So you´re using your lessons against me, aren´t you? Very clever", he grumbled, walking towards the place where his sword had fallen. As he was about to kneel to pick it up, however, he thought better about it. A wince crossed his features, hidden by the shadows.

"I just wanted to know. If there was something else." Halideyid´s voice was laced with a new intent. "Twenty years ago, when I was born, the lord of Hyarnustar´s brother was living in the capital. He is well known here for his... excesses with women, and for his love for the wine that his native lands export. Among the Guards, it is whispered that he has my eyes..."

"Are you doubting that I am your father?" Amandil shouted. "You think you´re some nobleman´s bastard, and then he, what? Sent me to your mother in his place?"

"No, that would make no sense, not to us who know you, but..."Halideyid sought his glance now, eagerly. "Maybe _you_ could be his bastard."

"Me?" Amandil was taken aback. What was the meaning of all those questions? Where did his son want to get to, interrogating him like that?

_He couldn´t know. He shouldn´t ask._

The eager look disappeared, replaced by an air of grave... _was it disappointment?_

"I´m sorry. I shouldn´t have asked. I know there are reasons..."

"What do you know?" Amandil snapped. Then, however, he calmed himself, ashamed of his outburst.

_How would_ _ **he**_ _feel, if he had been in his son´s place?_ Growing without his father... sent money through intermediaries, gossiped about and rejected because of his strange features at the guild his own mother´s family had belonged to. He remembered Halideyid´s enigmatic words before the duel, and understood them better now. "That´s why you said that the Guards wouldn´t appreciate meeting my associates. They actually think a councilman´s family is going to meddle in their affairs, don´t they? _Everybody_ believes that stupid story, don´t they?"

"Not everybody", his son replied at once. "It´s just a few whispers. I´ve never even told Mother about them, I wouldn´t want her to know."

_And maybe she doesn´t want **you** to know, _ Amandil mused, growing more disheartened.

"Halideyid" he began, barely knowing what would come from his mouth next, "you must understand something. I didn´t leave willingly, and if it depended on me I... I would be here with you and your mother, and I wouldn´t have to hide or keep secrets from anyone."

_Was he understanding a word of this?_ He sat on the porch, next to a withered cherry flower that had been blown that far by the wind. Distractedly, he picked it up and started turning it around his palm.

"Do not worry, Father, I know that too." Halideyid said then, and the flower fell from his hand. "Do you remember when Mother and I travelled to the Forbidden Bay ten years ago, and we saw each other for the first time? You were going to greet us, but a priest scolded you and told you to stop chattering with the pilgrims and go back to your duties. I looked at your face then, and you didn´t look like a man who wanted to hide, but like a man who was forced to hide. With that knowledge, I could never have thought badly of you."

Amandil looked down, at the flower that was now lying at his feet. For a long while, he spoke no word.

Then, he raised his head.

"I am no bastard. I am the true heir of my father and grandfather, Lord Valandil of Andúnië."

If they had been holding swords at this very moment, he could have easily gained retribution for his son´s earlier ploy. Halideyid had never looked so shaken.

"Valandil? The prisoner of Sor? The....?"

"The traitor", Amandil finished for him. "When I was a child, the King was going to have me killed. Instead, I was vowed to priesthood in Armenelos, and my line was supposed to die with me. However, I met your mother, and you were conceived. I could not bear the thought of disposing of you, and so with the help of a powerful friend, I erected this wall of lies to protect you, your mother and myself. You are the last descendant of the Western lords, Halideyid."

The young man had gone pale.

"But the Western line...everybody says that they are conspirers... that they are godless..."

"I was taken away from my parents when I was a child", Amandil replied, with a bitter grimace. "It has been more years than I can count, and still that´s not how I remember them." His son was about to open his mouth again, but he interrupted him before he could utter a word. He had not thought of it once in years, and still, all of a sudden, it seemed terribly important. "Nobody is godless, Halideyid. People worship different gods, and that´s why they hate each other." He thought of his mother, telling him stories about Melkor´s evil deeds, and the verses about the Elves in Yehimelkor´s theogony. "The King poisoned my food and sent men to cut my throat in my sleep, but his grandson befriended me in spite of who I was. The High Priest of Melkor would have killed me and burned my corpse in the fire altar of the temple, but the man who will be his sucessor saved my life and took care of me. Hating whole lineages and religions is more complicated than it seems."

Halideyid frowned. He was still shaken, but he managed to nod to his father´s words.

"Anyway" he whispered, "I can´t hate myself, can I?"

_Wise beyond his years,_ Amandil thought, in a brief outburst of pride, _wiser than I was back then._

"My position is dangerous. Even now, I feel that His Holiness sending me in the party to Middle-Earth, though it was a cherished wish of my childhood, might not be a simple coincidence. That´s why it´s better that you know who you are. And if the day comes that my family is freed from their prison, and you tell them that you are my son..."

Halideyid´s eyes started widening in alarm at those words. Amandil noticed it, and fell silent.

"Then again, maybe you would prefer to just forget what I told you. It´s not easy, and not likely to help you now." _Maybe he, Amandil, would have preferred to forget what he knew, too._

But Halideyid bowed low.

"Thank you for telling me."

Amandil´s mind was in turmoil as he crossed the porch and walked aimlessly through the corridors of the house. He did not see Amalket waiting for him at the threshold, and almost crashed against her.

"Did something happen?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in worry as she perceived his agitation. Amandil held her hand.

"I..."

In his fevered state, it crossed his imagination to tell her, there and then, to expose himself to her judgement and wait for the veredict as he had done with his son. But then she tiptoed and pressed her lips against his, and that moment was gone.

"You´re with me", she moaned between kisses. "You can forget... your troubles... for a while."

"I will", he promised, encircling her waist with his hands and kissing her back.

* * * * *

The next morning, Amandil was one more of the bleary-eyed, barely awoken priests who gathered at the main gate of the Palace under Abdashtart´s frowns of disapproval. All around them, the King´s soldiers were gathering among a flurry of standards and the clang of armour. Some were on foot and some on horseback, and they seemed quite pleased to see them, though they were not seasoned warriors and many would require protection. The blessings of the gods were a force to be reckoned on its own, and nobody in Númenor was as religious as the soldiers.

That´s why it would be useless for any Elf-loving lineage to conspire against the Sceptre, Amandil thought, remembering the conversation with his son last night. But then, his own father had told him clearly enough, back when he was a child. We must obey the King who holds the Sceptre in Armenelos.

_They were no conspirers._

"Look who´s here! If it´s not _Hannishtart_ himself!"

Amandil´s musings were abruptly quenched by this shout. He looked up, not wanting to believe his ears. _That voice..._

Pharazôn jumped from his magnificent white horse, ignoring the protest of the man who held the reins, and tugged at Amandil´s. He was wearing an almost eye-blinding armour, all set in silver steel, and covered in a purple cape with gold embroiderings.

Feeling how everybody´s eyes were set on him, Amandil dismounted. He did not know if he wanted to hug his friend or punch him in the nose. In the end, he showed enough reflexes to kneel and bow low.

"What are you doing?" the fool cried, almost as loud as before. "Stand up and look at me, I had been waiting for this moment! Since I read the names of the priests who were coming with us..."

A vein seemed about to break in Abdashtart´s forehead. Pharazôn lifted Amandil, and something in his eyes seemed to inform him that his old friend did not appreciate everyone hearing such a familiar address. Changing track, he whispered some orders to his escort not to let anyone approach them while they talked.

"Are you mad?" Amandil hissed as the space around them emptied. Eyes, however, still followed him wherever he looked. "What if the King hears about this? He will have me killed!"

"The King is just a sour old man these days. He will be so pleased when I earn renown in Middle-Earth that he will have to grant whatever I ask of him", Pharazôn explained. "And I will ask that you are allowed to leave the Forbidden Bay and join the army."

"If you ask anything of the sort, he will pretend to agree and send assassins to finish me as I sleep that very night," Amandil growled. "I hope you earn renown, because then he might be too busy to hear about this. Please, treat me like any other priest."

"Fine, fine", Pharazôn looked barely ashamed. "My mother already told him you were a bad influence on me, back when she convinced him to send you away. Surely it won´t look suspicious for me to greet an old bad influence I haven´t seen in years."

He turned away, and called his escort back as if nothing had happened. Amandil watched him as he left, thoughtful. Back when they used to play together with wooden sticks, they had spoken of Middle-Earth plenty of times, of the monsters they would slay and the victorious wars they would lead there. Now that both of them were part of an expedition that would take them across the sea to the lands they had dreamed in their childhood, however, it felt like a strange coincidence -and, somehow, an ominous one.

_Maybe he just thought too much._

"Let this be the last time you approach the son of the Prince of the South." Abdashtart warned him between clenched teeth, as he struggled to mount back his grey mare.

* * * * *

The Arms of the Giant, the great harbour of Sor, was a mere two days by horse from Armenelos, but as there was infantry it took them four. It was relatively easy to avoid Pharazôn, as he was always surrounded by people, but this did not give Amandil as much relief as it might have. The truth was that he would have wanted to speak to him, a good long conversation to tell him about the things he had revealed to his son, and his mixed feelings about this expedition. Pharazôn had a way to assuage his worries, to make him feel like nothing in the world would hurt them. Listening to his words was sometimes like wine; they gave him courage without a reason. And courage without a reason was the best thing he could hope for right now.

They reached the coast on the morning of the third day, and looked upon the ancient harbour of Rómenna, ensconced in the narrow bay between the roots of the Orrostar and the Hyarrostar. It seemed a venerable place even from the distance, a city of ancient houses and empty stone harbours. Amandil remembered Yehimelkor teaching him that this had been the greatest port of Eastern Númenor once, where the first ships departed for Middle-Earth and came back loaded with all kinds of strange animals and plants. It had been there, too, where the first sacred objects of the cult of Melkor had arrived from the temples in the colonies, but now the old docks held naught but fishing boats, floating still in that windless place.

Next, the road followed the coastline for some thirty winding miles. To their right stood the great forests of Hyarrostar, under the authority of the governor of Sor, which furnished timber for the Númenorean fleet. To the left, the Eastern sea, bluer than the sea of the Forbidden Bay, came to die in barren coasts of rock and sand.

There was a high elevation in their way, whose sandy slopes proved difficult for the horses. Few trees had taken root there, and the East wind, which was becoming stronger as they approached the first peak of the Hyarrostar, brought volleys of sand upon their faces. Amandil´s face had almost sunk to the neck of his mount when they finally climbed it, though the sight under their feet made him look up at once.

The road came down on a city of tall houses set upon the slope. Proud red towers rose at every turn, each vying with the others for the prized view of the ships coming from and to the harbour. Beyond them, the Arms of the Giant, the enormous artificial harbour built by Ar-Adunakhôr, stretched for almost a mile into the sea, holding a thousand ships in their embrace.

Each arm ended in a pronounced curve, upon which stood two red statues of the Great God. One of them was clad in full armour and holding a sword; the other wore a crown and a sceptre. Statues of Melkor were blasphemous, Yehimelkor had always told him, but these were said to have the features of Ar-Adunakhôr himself.

Amandil remembered only two things from the city of his birth: the sea of red towers and one of the statues, the one with the sword, which he had been able to see whenever he tiptoed on Azzibal´s balcony. Still, as he rode past the steep and crowded streets, he could not help feeling that the place was familiar to him somehow. He looked up at the towers and balconies, wondering which of them belonged to Azzibal the associate of Magon.

"Make way, make way!" somebody was shouting at the head of the column. The Sorians were used to soldiers riding through the streets in their way to the ships, as they were to caravans of marchandise and riots. They left their business and talking circles and stood aside to let them pass, but they did it slowly, almost defiantly, as if they wanted to show them that they were not afraid.

The accomodation process was much slower this time than it had been in Armenelos, since the two hundred priests had been joined by a thousand soldiers and a prince. Amandil had the unpleasant feeling that they meant for him to be the last to get a bed, to pay for his insolence on the first morning of the trip. Finally, he was given a tiny room in an inn by the harbour, which smelled strongly of fish from the vendors that crowded the doorstep.

"Where are you going?" Eshmounazer asked him as he saw him going downstairs.

"To buy fish", Amandil replied. Trudging past the vendors without as much as a second glance, he found himself in the street.

The harbour, despite its size, was so crowded that it was barely possible to walk through it. People sold, bought, begged, talked, shouted, laughed and pushed each other under the shadow of large merchant vessels. Amandil walked past all of them, until he reached an area full of timber barges which was less congested. His pace slowed, and he approached a man who sat behind a pile of coloured fabrics for sale.

"Do you know the house of Azzibal, a rich merchant of this city?" he asked. The man nodded, barely surprised at the question.

"Aye, over there, third street to the left. You will know it by the ship mosaics on the front."

"Thank you." Amandil bowed courteously, and turned his steps in that direction. As he did so, he ran into a beggar, who grabbed his cloak.

"A coin, good sir, just a tiny coin!" he said. Amandil had barely stopped in his tracks, however, when the man gave a cry of surprise.

"You!"

"I don´t know you." Amandil grabbed his cloak and pulled firmly, but the man jumped to his feet and ran to fall on his knees before him, barring his escape. He wore tattered robes and a beard, but no matter how closely he looked at the features behind the tangles of dirty hair, Amandil was still at a loss.

"You have his face! The same face, I remember it well! You came to deliver us, as it was promised!" The man had tears on his eyes now, which gave him a moment of pause. He wiped them with the back of his hand and laughed; half of his teeth were broken. "You are the Lord of Andúnië, our rightful lord! Praise the Baalim and Baal Shamem, the King of the skies!""

The young priest saw other beggars drawing closer to them, attracted by the commotion. His instinct yelled at him to escape, to run back into the shadows and the safety, but the man´s happy smile held him transfixed.

Those people _... they were..._

"Stand back, you Nimruzîrim dogs!" The man who sold cloth, and whom Amandil had spoken to before, strode towards them at the head of a small group of vendors. They seemed very angry, and one of them was wielding a stone from the pavement." You are not permitted to disturb our customers!"

The beggars retreated, but the one who had touched Amandil did not move. The priest didn´t even think; he stood before him and turned to face the men.

"He wasn´t bothering me!" he claimed, searching his pocket frantically. Feeling metal inside, he grabbed it and put it on the beggar´s hand, before even checking how much it was. The vendors stopped in their tracks.

"You shouldn´t encourage them!" the one with the stone scolded. Next to him, another spat on the ground. "Because of them, Rómenna´s gone to the dogs, and now they´re trying to do the same here too, in the city of Ar-Adunakhôr! The nerve!"

"They look like simple beggars." the cloth seller told him in a confidential tone. "But at night they crawl back into their holes, oh yes, where they perform evil rites and commit all sorts of crimes."

For a moment, Amandil felt a forgotten fire burn in his chest, and he wanted to challenge those words. But then, he remembered that he was no lord of Andúnië, just a watched man who tried to survive by not turning anybody´s attention towards himself.

There was nothing he could do.

"They lost their lands, and I am sorry for them. Just let him go", he pleaded. The man spat again, and the beggar exulted.

"Soon you will sit in your rightful seat, and all these people will be taken by doom and darkness!" he cried. Amandil winced, feeling the weight of everybody´s stares.

"Just leave now!" he hissed at the man, then turned towards the others. "I think he´s not right in the head. He kept telling me about a lord who would come."

"The traitor of Andúnië", the cloth seller supplied. Amandil nodded, and walked past their looks of suspicion. As soon as he turned his back to them, he could hear whispers.

His thoughts grew darker and darker as he wandered through the streets, the beggar´s rotten smile seared in his mind like a burning brand. _The Nimruzîrim..._ the Elf-friends they called them, his family´s people who had once lived in the lands of Andustar. For generation after generation since Ar-Adunakhôr, they had lived in exile, and today he had seen what they had become.

_You came to deliver us, as it was promised!_

Amandil´s grin was bitter. He couldn´t deliver anyone, not even himself. He had no choice in the matter - _did he?_

Those people had been exiled, but they held to their beliefs even in the face of poverty, contempt and persecution. While he, Amandil of Andúnië, had been hiding under a cloak of lies and false names and forced devotion for gods that were not those of his fathers, just to cling to his miserable life. The thought made him cringe.

As he mulled over those discouraging comparisons, he found himself standing before a mosaic of grey and golden ships on a white wall. He stopped in front of them; night had almost fallen by now, and the street was empty.

He did not remember the walls, as he had never seen the outside of the house before. When he looked up, however, he saw the tower, and the balcony where he used to tiptoe to see the sights.

There were latticed windows on the ground floor, and a low roof, covered in red tiles. If he risked it, he could climb to the first floor at least, and find a way to his parents from there. A recklessness that he had never felt since he was a child and practiced swordsmanship in secret was taking hold of him as he stood there. He would prove that he was no craven. He would brave all dangers, forget his cowardly prudence and find them, and he would tell them...

_Tell them what?_

Back then, he had been a child, and his parents had been proud of him. They had told him tales of his lineage, of their friendship with the Elves and their battles with Morgoth. He, Amandil, would one day be the next of the line, and he would worship the Valar and befriend the Elves as his father and grandfather before him. But instead of that, he had worshipped the gods they hated, prayed to them every day and tended to their fires and altars. Worse, he had loved a woman who wasn´t one of them, impregnated her with the next heir of the Andúnië line, and then assumed the identity of a merchant in order to marry her in secret. And when one of their own people had recognized him, he had pretended to be someone else and walked away.

_Hating whole lineages and religions is more complicated than it seems_. He had told his son that, and he had felt strongly about it. But what if it was just him, who had become so tainted that his soul was torn forever between two worlds? What if they perceived this, and shunned him?

"He is my external grandfather´s associate", someone spoke. He turned, his turmoil too great to be shocked at Pharazôn´s presence next to him. The prince was wearing a cloak that covered his features, which he had probably used to give his escort the slip, but his manner and voice were unmistakeable. "I can get you in. I will be paying a visit and you will be my escort. What do you say?"

Amandil shook his head. He felt cold.

"But they are your parents!"

The birds were raising a great ruckus, as flocks of them fell upon their night refuges in the towers of the city. Amandil´s father had used to sit before the window, watching them for hours until darkness fell. The dark sterlings were his favourites, he had told his son once.

"No." he said. He grabbed Pharazôn´s shoulder, and the prince couldn´t suppress a start as the fingers clawed into his flesh. "Do you know any good places to drink?"

"What?"

"Take me there, then. I am thirsty. Please."

Their eyes met, and those of his friend were positively brimming with questions. And still, for once in his life, Pharazôn had the good sense not to say a word as they walked past the empty street towards the docks.


	38. Middle-Earth

 

**Middle-Earth**

 

 

Amandil didn´t fear the Sea.

It came as a surprise to him, as it had been in his most ominous dreams of waves that swept him and boats that carried him away, but once he stood on the deck of the ship and the breeze touched his face his anxiety vanished. So did the headache that he had acquired after drinking himself under the table last night, and even the dark broodings it had failed to quench. The rocking movement of the waves as they crossed the mouth of the harbour felt like being cradled in the arms of a lover, or a mother. And then, as Melkor became gradually smaller in the distance and disappeared behind the horizon, the euphoria of freedom, of adventure took hold of him, and he couldn´t sit still.

First, he rushed to the back of the ship and looked in the direction of Númenor until the Meneltarma, too, disappeared in the distance. Then, he was distracted by the evolutions of a school of dolphins, crossing the side of the ship in graceful formation. He blinked the sunlight away to venture in the inner quarters, where many of his companions sat with pale and dejected expressions. One of them threw up when he passed by, missing his foot by inches.

As he came out again, Amandil heard a sailor laughing and calling the priests landlubbers who had never even set foot in a fishing boat. Amandil hadn´t, either, but he remembered his descent from a lineage of sailors and sea-lovers. That part of his blood, at least, had not been tainted.

Relishing in that thought, and drawing from it some of the comfort that he hadn´t found in the wine, he asked the captain if he could be of any use during the trip. His offer was received with a snort at first, and he was told not to get in the way. But after they were hoisting the main sail and he jumped in to help them with his own strength, he was allowed to remain around. A few days later, he was already sharing tales with the sailors, who, ignorant or indifferent to his identity and the distrust of his superiors, did not have problems befriending him. Amandil had never felt so comfortable before, as even around his best friend he had to remain aware of everything that stood between them.

Pharazôn was ahead of him now, sailing in the main ship. Abdashtart, to Amandil´s great relief, was there as well, and the other priests were rarely seen on deck. Sometimes, he could even have closed his eyes and pretended that they didn´t exist, that he was sailing this ship on his own like the Andúnië lords of old. Pretending, however, was an idle game, which made him feel acutely aware of his own position, so he did not engage on it.

"Where are you from?" one of his new companions asked him one night, as they stood watch on deck repairing old sails. "You´re a born sailor, you are. I bet you must be from Sor."

Amandil nodded.

"You should stay here. A priest of the Lady of the Seas always comes handy on a ship."

"And even more if he doesn´t throw up", another sailor chimed in as he passed by. Both laughed aloud, and Amandil was briefly tempted to join in.

"There´s a lot of fighting in the mainland right now", the man continued, cutting the hard thread with a magnificent row of teeth. "The barbarians aren´t just petty raiding tribes anymore. They´ve made an alliance with the king of Mordor, and filthy Orcs follow their trail wherever they strike. It´s made them bold, it has. They´ve attacked trading settlements, caravans, even the crops! And in the bay of Gadir they´ve been having trouble too, I hear. Too close to Mordor, if you ask me." He shook his head, fixing such a grave stare on Amandil that the priest felt it would be only courteous to stop darning and reciprocate. "Don´t go there, lad. They say a lot of things about it, but the sea is less treacherous than the land is down there. Even if it plays a nasty trick on you, _that_ death is a thousand times better than what those bastards would have in store for you. They´ve always hated us, call us usurpers, tyrants and thieves. And the Mordor folk... those hate all men. To them, we´re only good for eating." He chuckled with some trepidation at the thought. "Stay here with us."

Amandil bit his lip, and resumed his work. The scenario the man was laying in front of him sounded like the stories of First Age heroes his mother told him, when the land was full of dangers all around them. Back then, with the simple logic of a child, he had thought that the Orcs and the monsters were there just for the hero to kill them and prove his worth.

"That choice does not lie with me", he explained. "The Cave rules my life, and the lives of all that are consecrated to the Goddess."

"That´s tough", the sailor grumbled. "Well, good luck down there, then. You´re no soldier, maybe you can stay out of trouble."

"I am good with the sword", he retorted, with some pride.

"Are you? Well, I hope you´re best with it than you are darning sails, because your life will depend on it!" For a while, his eyes became lost in the darkness, as if he was checking something that only he could see beyond. Then, he shrugged. "We´ll be setting anchor by tomorrow. Umbar´s not far."

"Already?" Amandil had always heard that Middle-Earth was even farther from Númenor than the land of the Valar. As the latter was untouchable for mortals, he could hardly imagine something even more remote, but the trip had lasted a mere fifteen days.

The sailor laughed at his surprise.

"Well, the wind isn´t always that good. Sometimes it´s against us, sometimes there are storms or there is calm. But you being priests of the Sea-Queen and all, she was really nice to us this time."

Amandil made a sign of reverence for the Goddess, and observed the handiwork that lay upon his lap. For a moment, a petty part of him couldn´t help but wonder what was so bad about it.

"I just meant that you would have to be even better with the sword to face them Orcs and barbarians down there", the man explained, as if he had guessed his thoughts. "No offense to your darning."

"Oh, I understand." He laid it down, cutting the thread with a knife, and his lips curved in a smile. "Well, as you can see, I learn quickly."

_And the first thing I ever learned was that many people wanted to kill me,_ he thought, trying to look past the same darkness where his companion´s glance had been lost. Orcs and barbarians he could kill, at least -and that was why he had wanted to learn swordsmanship in the first place, hadn´t he? To be able to face something head on, as he couldn´t face the merchants who held him prisoner, the King, the High Priests or their gods.

He couldn´t tell the sailors any of this, though.

"I s´ppose you will", his companion admitted grudgingly, folding his part of the fabric over Amandil´s and looking for more.

 

* * * * *

 

The sailor had been right: on the next morning, the flight of seagulls over their heads heralded the proximity of the mainland. Such was the anticipation raised by the arrival to the Land Beyond the Sea that even the priests who had spent the whole trip complaining in the cabins rushed on deck to look. This angered the captain, who yelled that they were interfering with the ship´s manouevres and sent them downstairs again. Amandil, however, was suffered to stay, as he was making himself useful by helping to pull up the sails and rolling them in coils.

For the most part, he was content with standing on the deck, catching whatever was hurled in his direction. As the manouevre progressed, however, he felt bolder, and started climbing the ropes. His movements were clumsy at first, though after a few attempts he managed to strike a pace. Higher and higher he climbed, trying not to look down, until he reached the men who were tying the knots.

"Coming to lend a hand, landlubber?" one of them laughed.

"He´s going to shit himself as soon as he looks down!" another shouted. Amandil looked at them: their hands were free, and they were busying themselves with the sails or even throwing coils of rope from one to another. He became aware of his own hands, grasping the cords for dear life, and wondered how he was supposed to break free without falling. His idea of climbing there began to seem more foolish by the minute.

"Land!" someone cried from afar.

Amandil forgot his fear for a moment, and stared ahead. His head turned violently, and for a moment he was really about to fall. He felt he was dangling over the waters, the ship deck nothing more than a small and narrow strip of wood that was pulled away from his feet with each lurch of the current.

Beyond it, the sea was full of ships, more ships than he had ever seen while he stood below. They were surrounded by white sails, tall masts, and tiny men who climbed on them just like he had done. Before them, far ahead, sailed the biggest ship of all, the _Lady´s Crown_ , where Pharazôn might be leaning on the railing for a glimpse of the land he had always wanted to see.

That land lay already in front of them, visible first for the sharp eyes of the lookouts, then for the rest of them as they abandoned their tasks for a moment to gaze ahead. It looked like a bare strip of rock, with none of the green he was used to see in Númenor. No houses, towers, or harbours were to be seen on its surface, only cliffs and long, spidery arms of what looked like reefs, and he turned towards those next to him in some puzzlement. As he did so, he felt his head turn again.

"Where is Umbar?" he asked, afraid to sound ridiculous. The sailor closest to him laughed.

"There it is", he said. Amandil frowned; his sight had always been good, but there was nothing like a city there. As others started to laugh, he wondered if they were making fun of him.

"Come on, let´s get the job done! And if you can´t do it, landlubber, you´d better get back on deck and leave us at it!"

Piqued by this, especially after being laughed at, Amandil gathered his courage and freed one of his hands; then, slowly, he freed the other. As he did so, he pressed himself against the mast, his body rigid as cold stone. Then, he stretched two tense arms, that picked up his end of the sail clumsily. His eyes were fixed on it; he couldn´t look anywhere else.

After he had folded it and tied it to the mast, there was much joking among the sailors at his difficulty to climb down as easily as he had climbed up. Amandil bore this with good enough grace, even when he almost collapsed after setting foot on deck and the laughter reached the lookout on the topmost mast. But the matter of the invisible Umbar still bothered him.

In the following hour, there was too much work to be done to investigate the approaching continent. Only after the ship was gliding over the waves at a sleepy pace, pulled by oars, he looked over the railing and realized that most of the ships that used to be ahead of them had disappeared. He ran towards the prow, and for the first time he caught a glimpse of the Gates.

It was a huge, gaping mouth of a cave, standing in the midst of the cliffs of the shore. Two of the ships were disappearing through it, as if swallowed by a sea-monster such as used to battle with the Lady for dominion of the Seas in the lore of the Cave. They entered side by side, and even then they had no problem fitting in.

"Helm!" the captain shouted. They were going to follow them; one of the ships behind them was positioning itself on their left, and they were steering right. The mouth was growing closer, and larger, and Amandil saw an enormous inscription hewn in the rock right above.

_The Bright King, who conquered darkness and superstition, settled this land_

_In the year 2280, fifty-nine after his accesion to the throne_

_His sixth generation descendant, the Lord of the West, made it prosperous and great_

_To the West, he built powerful walls that the fury of the Sea cannot breach_

_To the East, he built powerful walls where his enemies shatter and disperse_

And then he looked at what he had taken for reefs, and realized that they were man-made, stone foundations that had been built to keep the deadly flux of the current away from the passage. _Powerful walls that the fury of the Sea cannot breach._ Astonished, he forgot that he was supposed to help and stood there, drinking on the sight with large, wide eyes.

The ship´s prow was eventually positioned at the mouth of the cave, and they were swallowed like the others. Amandil had expected darkness, but he found it was not so, for the walls had lights that cast an orange glow upon the palm of his hand. Those lights were reflected on the water, drawing undulating shapes on the high ceiling. It was an ancient ceiling, maybe older than Men themselves, full of shards of weeping stone that threatened to break their masts. The ship, however, waded easily across the passage, and he realized that it was but an illusion: they were too high to be touched even by Númenorean ships.

Their journey through the shadows finished in a second mouth, as large as the first. An onslaught of sunlight came through it, and Amandil had to blink. He could not afford to be blinded, even for a second; he did not want to miss any of those marvels.

When his full eyesight was restored, he found that they were on a bay, similar to the one in Rómenna. The harbour and city of Umbar stood before them, holding almost as many ships as the Arms of Sor. Behind the tangle of masts and sails, he could see a large wall that loomed protectively over a city of terraces and low towerless houses, made of the same sand-coloured stone of the Middle-Earth cliffs.

" _To the East, he built powerful walls where his enemies shatter and disperse"_ he muttered to himself, remembering the words of the inscription. Someone caught his arm, and he turned around, still shaken.

"Are you going to help, or will you just stand there mooning over the landscape?" a rough voice asked. Still, in the captain´s eyes there was a spark of understanding that told Amandil that he could still remember going through the same, the first time he had seen this place.

Now, it was time for the ropes, which had to be uncoiled, and heavy anchors that had to be carried by eight strong men. The ship was brought to the dock where many others from their party were already anchored, and a crowd of men that walked under colourful parasols welcomed those that came down Pharazôn´s ship. Soldiers with red crests prowled around, keeping other people away from the place. Umbar was ruled by two magistrates, but since King Ar-Gimilzôr had given them voice in his Council one of them was usually in Númenor. The other was left in charge of the city and its domains, and judging by all the fuss he should be part of this distinguished group of merchant princes. The arrival of a  _real_ prince surely deserved his presence, even though he came as part of the army, and the Goddess would also claim her due.

When Amandil´s ship stood finally in a row with the others, however, the welcoming party had dispersed, and the Umbarites were starting to fill the place again. The colourful dresses seemed to be restricted to the rich merchants in that place; most people were clad in white, and their clothes also covered their heads, to shield them from the sun. Only their faces were visible, and though he could detect Númenorean complexions he also saw darker skins, reddish and coarse, and even some that were black like the obsidian floors of the Palace.

"They have all kinds here. This part of the city is where the rich merchants and magistrates live, and those have plenty of slaves. You will see more Númenorean faces beyond the first wall, in the farms and the crops. Ironic, isn´t it?"

Amandil turned towards his source of information; it was the same man who had shared his watch last night and warned him about the perils of the land. Though he had been about to step on the plank, he stopped in his tracks and seized the cue eagerly.

"First wall? Are there more?"

"There are two, one for the city and the harbour and the second for the fields. But since most soldiers are on that one, and they were bored out of their wits, a second city was built around them. The whores and the priests all moved there." The sailor started to laugh, then sobered and made a respectful gesture with his head. "Sorry. Didn´t mean no offense."

"None taken. You remember the Lady, her whores and her priests with enough respect when you´re caught in a storm in the open sea." Amandil replied coolly. _Devotion springs chiefly from fear;_ two gods had already won him for their service in that manner. But they did not look so awe-inspiring when setting foot on solid ground, or walking under the mallorn trees in the peaceful Bay.

_Which reminded him..._

"I am told that the soldiers of Umbar worship no god but the Lord of Battles", he said. "Ours is a goddess for sailors, and yet they are expected to welcome us here."

The man laughed.

"A soldier and a sailor will believe in anything that can get them out of a tight spot alive." He scratched his chin, his look meaningful. "Not to mention that war isn´t the only spot of trouble they can get into, you know. The watches are long, the service lasts years, and whoever of them has a wife will have even forgotten how she looked like."

Amandil nodded, in cautious understanding.  _He had never forgotten Amalket in the Forbidden Bay,_ he told himself, _and nor would he here._

"In that case they should have asked for priestesses, not for us. The Forbidden Bay is full of them", he jested. The sailor laughed, too, and patted his shoulder.

"You´ve done well, Hannishtart. Even though you stood gawking all the way through the passage and almost shat your pants when you tried to climb that mast, it was good for a first time. I wish you could be a sailor, but wherever you go you´ll be fine. I´m sure of that."

"Thank you." Amandil looked at the rugged face, and the dark eyes that could see things in the night. His throat itched for a moment, making him swallow. "May you have a good journey home, and may the Lady of the Seas guide you."

And with a last nod of farewell, he walked down the plank, and set his feet on the land of Middle-Earth.

 

* * * * *

 

Abdashtart, Pharazôn and the people on their ship had been invited to the Magistrate´s house for a banquet, which meant that, for the next hours, Amandil was left to wander the streets of Umbar alone. Food was not hard to come by, he discovered shortly after venturing on land. Meats that smelled strongly of hot spice were sold at every turn, and as soon as he had a spit in one hand an old woman rushed to press a cup of tea into the other.

Umbar had narrower streets than the Númenorean cities, and they were also more crooked. The houses had low ceilings, and the only point of reference, asides from the harbour that stretched in parallel with most of the city, was the temple of Melkor, one of the Four Great Temples. Compared with the one in Armenelos, however, even with the one in Sor, it seemed small and unworthy of its title. It was built with the same sandy stone as the rest of the houses, and only a colourful dome, whose lacquered tiles gleamed in the midday sun, made it stand out from the rest.

As a priest of the Lady, Amandil could not visit that temple, nor could he wander far in any other direction for fear of getting lost. So he sat on the doorstep of one of the buildings in the harbour, and ate his food while watching the movements of ships under the walls of cliff and rock that hid them from the sailors at open sea. The first bite brought tears to his eyes; after the fifth, he had already drunk all his tea. The old woman pressed a second cup to his hand, smiling a toothless grin. He was running out of money, as the one he had given to the beggar in Sor had been his weightiest coin.

After a while, the Umbarians that walked past him started diverting his attention from the landscape. Amandil had never seen such strange looking people. Now and then, a group of men with long, braided beards and naked to the waist walked past him; their sun-battered skins and grave expressions lending them a solemn appearance. Black women carried jars of water balanced on their heads, and a rich merchant, who probably had left the banquet earlier because of some trouble with a ship, walked away in all his green, gold and blue dyed finery, a trail of associates and slaves following his steps.

When one of his fellow priests arrived to fetch him, he was looking at two children who wrestled with a large green bird that growled like a dog.

"We go. " the priest said, panting. "They want to reach the Second Wall with the last light, so hurry up."

Amandil tore his eyes away from the fascinating creature, and followed him.

 

* * * * *

 

Pharazôn´s white horse had been brought all the way from Númenor, housed in the large ship with the rest of the crew. Amandil´s mare, however, had stayed in the Sorian fields with the rest, and he hadn´t regretted it much until he was made to walk through all the territory of the City. The Magistrate had offered horses to the party, but they were no more than a hundred and the bounty had not reached him.

At first, it was all he could do to keep the pace of the soldiers, who still had enough breath inside them to shout and point and make bawdy jokes as they made their way down the winding path that meandered between the fields. As the First Wall shrunk in the distance, however, and the Second was already a sandy strip on the horizon, he began to find his own pace.

"Whose fields are those?" he asked, surprised. The farm on their right was surrounded by a fence, so high as to be almost a wall, and there were soldiers standing at the entrance. Amandil saw the head of the column stop by them, but he couldn´t distinguish anything else.

"The King´s", a soldier replied. "That´s where they grow the leaf that gives them visions. It can only be burned at the Palace and the Temples, anywhere else is treason."

_The visions..._ Amandil shuddered in spite of himself. He had never been allowed to burn it, but they came to him all the same. And they weren´t good.

"And they need to guard it? Who would want to be _made_ to see... who knows what foul things?"

"Oh, but they say you can see the future." The soldier looked at the fence in some longing. "An useful skill, all the same."

"Superstitions." Amandil shrugged, not as nonchalantly as he would have expected. A doubt had assailed him.

Once, he remembered, Yehimelkor had told him that the Lord of Armenelos sent him warnings. Before they parted, he had warned him that a great disaster was in store if they ever met again, and it hadn´t sounded like a mere threat. But Amandil had never seen him burn any leaves, either.

Other farms had no fences, and they could see the day´s work coming to an end as lines of people slowly trickled away from the fields. A group of women carrying baskets stared at them in quiet fear, standing at the side of the road.

"Aren´t barbarians good looking?" the soldier who had satisfied his curiosity earlier asked Amandil, in a conversational tone.

A red dusk was falling over the Territory as they came to the Second Wall at last. It was an impressive work of Númenorean architecture, even larger than the one they had left behind, and a second city basked in its shadow. This, however, was not a city of harbours and merchant houses, like the Umbar on the bay. It was a city of barracks and tents, wild looking and strange. Clumsily built temples stood next to whorehouses, and barbarian concubines herded naked children away from the horses´s hooves. Amandil felt, here for the first time, that Númenor was hundreds of miles away, at the other side of the Great Sea.

The commander, a burly man that looked bald from afar, stood in front of his house to bid them welcome: a building made of wood and which looked rather like a bigger barrack than the others. They were told that suitable accomodations had been erected for them in the Western quarters, that the priests would have their temple built soon so they could start "bringing in the whores" -Abdashtart looked like someone who had chewed on a lemon believing that it was an orange-, and that the prince could stay in his own house if he wished.

"No, I want to live with the others", Pharazôn said. The commander looked surprised in turn, but he did not argue.

Amandil was directed to a "provisional accomodation" that he shared with nine other priests. There were no beds, but there was straw and blankets for everybody and he helped himself to a large heap. He was feeling tired, and in need of a good washing. The soldier who had showed them in had told them there was a washing house behind, with buckets and soap and everything he required.

That this place was used more as a washing house for clothes than people became apparent to Amandil as he found his way among lines of shirts, blankets and even more intimate clothing, of the kind that no Númenorean would ever display in public. Nobody was inside at the moment, but there was no way to bar the door, and he wondered if he was supposed to show his naked body to whoever, man or woman, happened to pass by. He did not like the idea.

Leaving that dilemma for later, he sought until he found a place where tubs could be heated for washing, but found no indice of firewood. Thanks to his years with Yehimelkor in the Temple of Armenelos, however, Amandil had become quite used to cold water. He washed his face, then his hands and his neck, and finally, after looking through the door several times to check that nobody was coming, he took his clothes away and poured water over his body. Then, he rubbed quickly, and put them back again.

After he was done, Amandil felt more relaxed than he had been in weeks. Each of his arms and legs seemed loaded with a heavy weight, and he sat on the logs of the makeshift porch. A warm night breeze was blowing, drying his face and hair.

The feeling was so pleasant that he closed his eyes for a moment. Far in the distance, there was a sound of laughter, and he could hear the notes of a song. Drops of water trickled down his fingers, and he wiped them against the wood.

_Water._

It was coursing around him, the current growing swifter and higher with a deafening roar. He was sitting on a boat, but it was too small to resist the pull, and the waves tossed it around like a child´s toy. And then he felt it... the sea was retreating, and he with it, and he needed to escape but there was nothing he could do except sit there, helpless, waiting for the Wave to engulf him.

Suddenly, an acrid, terrifying smell reached Amandil´s nostrils. He looked back, and screamed. _The Wave was made with blood, the blood of thousands._

"Will you _shut up_?"

The pull became focused, warmer and harder as he shook against it. Someone was cursing as he struggled with him, and he knew that voice. It made him remember that it was not real; the sea, the boat, the Wave...

His hands were dripping with blood. A face, covered in blood appeared before his eyes, and he was about to scream again.

"Stop it! The whole camp is going to hear you!"

"Blood..." he mumbled, shivering. Pharazôn nodded.

"Yes, that´s right."

Slowly, Amandil became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on the porch of the washing house, and his hair was still humid. He was shivering, and his head hurt.

Pharazôn, meanwhile, sat back on his feet, staring at him. Blood covered not only his face, but his clothes, hair and body. It was forming a puddle on the logs where they both sat, and Amandil felt an urge to avert his glance to quench a sinking feeling of horror. He would have believed it a hallucination, a figment of his dream that refused to leave even after he opened his eyes, for his friend didn´t look hurt... but the smell was too strong, too real.

"You were screaming and thrashing like someone who´s been burning those leaves in the field beyond", Pharazôn said. He looked about to ask something else, but Amandil cut him before he had the chance.

"What´s that blood?"

"Bull", the prince explained. "There was a ritual... the soldiers do it. You have to lie inside a small cave, under a hole, and then they slaughter a bull on top of you. "Pride crept into his voice. "I belong to the Lord of Battles now."

Amandil was appalled.

"You let them... you let them _shower_ you in some animal´s filth?" Reality was coming back, and as everything settled in its proper place the story seemed even more disturbing. "While... lying inside a hole?"

"They said they´ve rarely seen anyone who took it so bravely", Pharazôn boasted. "The Lord of Battles must be really pleased."

Amandil could not help thinking of Yehimelkor in Armenelos, of what choice words he would have awarded the very idea of that ritual... and of a Lord of Battles. _Impious and bloody superstitions that turn men into beasts and dishonour the god´s name._

Then, he looked at Pharazôn. He did not need to undergo any of this, as the royal family had been under Melkor´s protection for centuries. No more than he needed to mix with the soldiers or sleep on their beds, or even be there. But there he was, and he looked radiant under all the bull´s gore, like someone who had accomplished a great feat. Amandil could not help but feel dizzy at the gulf that stood between them, making them more different than ever.

"Bathing in bull´s blood. Why not throwing yourself off a cliff?" He grumbled, struggling to his feet. "You believe in all those things, don´t you? No matter who says them."

"And what do _you_ believe in?"

Amandil froze, wincing at the challenge. Pharazôn knew everything about his family, and their beliefs as seen by the King and his courtiers, but he had rarely said a word on the subject before -or asked. Amandil had assumed that his sucessive priesthoods in the service of the Númenórean gods had convinced him that he had renounced the ways of his ancestors.

_What did he believe in?_ After years of thinking that the answer to this question should be kept in secret from others, he had realized that he was also keeping it in secret from himself. His mind eluded the thought, and there was pain in the struggle.

He shook his head, deflecting the barb of the question.

"I believe this is stupid. And why are you here, anyway? Shouldn´t you be celebrating with your new friends?"

Pharazôn took the cue.

"I came to wash myself." He muttered something about not wanting Lord Belbazer, chief of his escort, to see him like this, and turned away to grab a bucket. Then, he realized it was cold, and hissed a curse.

"Is there a way of heating this?"

"No. Sorry." Amandil replied with his best smile. The stars were beginning to disappear from the sky, _had he been sleeping for so long?_ "But if you withstood the holy rain of blood a drop of cold water will seem but a trifle to you."

"Damn you."

As Amandil stepped on the humid ground, he could hear a loud splash, followed by more curses. Feeling better than minutes before, he wrapped his cloak tightly over his shoulders, and quickened his pace through the sleeping city of wood.

_With some luck, nobody would have noticed his absence._

"Hannishtart?" Startled, he looked up. He hadn´t seen Eshmounazer at all.

"Hello." The young man looked anxious; looking at his face under the dim light gave Amandil pause. "What´s the matter?"

"The Commander has summoned you. And me, too. I... wonder what he could want from us."

_Nothing good,_ Amandil thought, the beginnings of his good mood quenched under a dark premonition.

 

* * * * *

 

The Commander was waiting for them in his house. He was sitting in front of a low tea table with their superior Abdashtart, who was dressed as if for travel. Unlike what had seemed to Amandil on the previous day, he wasn´t bald, but his hair had receded considerably, leaving him with a long and brilliant forehead.

"Oh, here they are." Abdashtart pointed out. Both men turned towards them, and Amandil bowed low.

"There´s a trading post about a hundred miles away from here. It´s there that the merchant caravans strike deals with the barbarians from Harad." the officer´s deep voice informed them. "Lord Abdashtart here is going to consecrate a temple to the Lady of the Forbidden Bay, and you have been chosen to accompany him."

Amandil felt Eshmounazer shift uncomfortably at this news. From what the young priest had told him that night on the Cave, he guessed that the idea of venturing into barbarian territory wasn´t of his liking.

He, to an extent, shared the feeling himself. He wasn´t afraid of fighting, but something else was bothering him -and it had to do with Abdashtart. If he had to lay a finger on the reason, however, it would slip away like the Wave after he woke up shivering.

Bowing again, he willed his voice not to show any emotion.

"I am honoured, my lord."

"You will be given arms, just in case. I will send a party of soldiers with you, but the area is getting eventful. I trust you know how to fight."

"I do", Amandil replied, the firmness in his tone more sincere this time. Eshmounazer mumbled something after him.

"Then follow me." Abdashtart stood up, setting the cup aside, and motioned to them. Both priests obeyed in silence, each of them lost in his own thoughts.

They were brought to the armoury first, where each could choose the weapons that they liked. Amandil found himself a good sword without rust, and tried its balance before tying the scabbard to his waist. He also found two knives, which he also appropriated for good measure, and a heavy chainmail whose weight was so unfamiliar to him that he was about to leave it behind. They would be going by horse, however – and the feeling that he might need it was too nagging to ignore.

Then, they were given food to eat and spare, and were directed towards the stables, where they were offered "the best steeds that hadn´t been claimed by anyone else", as the horse master informed them in a somewhat sardonic tone. Amandil´s didn´t kick or bite, and even if it was a bit old he took it as an improvement. He grabbed it by the reins and took it to the main square -an empty patch of earth in front of the commander´s house- where Abdashtart was waiting for them with his own horse and an escort of ten soldiers.

Dawn was already breaking behind the Second Wall, giving the sky the colour of pale red wine. Under its light, the camp was stirring awake, and he could hear the clang of armour of the soldiers on duty, the cries of children and the morning call of the roosters. He gathered his reins, willing himself to discard his apprehensions.

"Wait! Hey, wait!"

The soldier at the head of the column made his horse stop sharply, and everybody followed his example. Eshmounazer, who was not paying attention, crashed against the man before him, and almost fell off.

_That voice..._

Hardly daring to believe his ears, Amandil saw a white horse galloping towards them like a vision, mounted by a young man in a purple cloak and an armour of silver steel and gold. He came to a halt right before Abdashtart, and the horse reared back with an impatient kick.

"I am coming with you."

The priest´s face went pale.

 


	39. The Heart of Darkness, Part I

Abdashtart wasn´t pleased.

Amandil could feel dismay radiating through his features as Pharazôn galloped towards the column and fell in between them. For a moment, he even thought he saw him exchange glances with the leader of the soldiers, but it was just a brief flicker of a second and he couldn´t tell whether he had imagined it.

As they came to the gate, however, and the chief guard finished examining the official paper that was handed to him, he set a heavy frown on the richly attired rider.

"The prince shouldn´t be leaving."

Abdashtart nodded, and was about to open his mouth, but Pharazôn spoke first.

"I didn´t come all the way from Armenelos to stay cooped in a camp while other people fight and risk themselves."

The priest of Ashtarte-Uinen insisted.

"That´s a noble sentiment, my lord, but..."

"We are just going to a trading post", Amandil intervened, wondering why he felt so daring. His friend´s presence had disquieted his superior for some reason, and that had given him a new courage. "It must be safe enough, or the merchants wouldn´t be able to conduct their business..."

"Nobody asked for your opinion", Abdashtart dismissed him with a long, cold stare. Beside him, Eshmounazer was looking agitated again.

Pharazôn, oblivious to them, answered the chief guard´s frown with his own.

"Open that door. I´m going with them."

The man looked reluctant, but there was nothing he could do. He gave the orders, and turned away muttering something between his teeth.

As they crossed the Second Wall of Umbar, Pharazôn finally manouevred his horse to ride beside Amandil´s.

"You were trying to sneak away and earn all the glory first, weren´t you?" he accused. Amandil should have glared at him for forgetting that he should keep a distance, but he found that he couldn´t. He felt lightheaded.

"Sorry. But, as you see, our superior doesn´t think that consecrating a temple ground in a trade settlement is glorious enough for the Lord of Battles´s Chosen One", he muttered, before tugging at the reins to fall prudently behind. The disgruntled Abdashtart took his place at once, and though the clatter of hooves prevented him from hearing their conversation, he guessed that the priest was trying to convince him to go back and think of his responsibilities.

Around them, the landscape provided a sharp contrast to the green fields and farmlands they had seen at the other side of the wall. This was hard land, where a few trees with gnarled trunks and small, hard leaves grew sparsely over large extensions of scorched-looking grass. The sun was rising over the horizon, and just two hours after dawn its rays were already making them sweat under their mail. It would get much worse, one of the soldiers warned them with a darkly satisfied grin.

And it did. By midday, Amandil was boiling, and he could barely see in front of him from the sweat that covered his face. Abdashtart´s face was as red as a tomato, while Eshmounazer began swaying alarmingly on his mount. Pharazôn had taken away his cloak and put it over his head the way he had seen the Umbarites do, but it didn´t seem to work because he tore it away after a while.

"How can they breathe like that?" he asked angrily. One of the soldiers, who seemed to be taking the onslaught of heat much better than any of them, laughed.

"They don´t. They don´t need it."

"And they don´t sweat, either", another chimed in. "That´s why they only need to drink one drop of water a day."

"Speaking about water, who has any?"

The soldier who rode in the back produced a waterskin from his bag, and passed it over. Amandil hadn´t been complaining, but he was so grateful at the liquid that he almost choked with it.

"Easy, easy!" They were all laughing now, while Amandil coughed and wiped his eyes. As he handed it to Eshmounazer -who was too dizzy to notice until it was shaken under his nose- something in the distance attracted his attention. It looked like a black stain, set against the horizon.

"What´s that?" he asked. His voice came hoarse, and barely recognizable.

"That was a barbarian town. That´s what they call a few huts surrounded by sticks, you see", the soldier of the waterskin explained. "It was burned in the wars thirty-five years ago."

"That was quite a spot of trouble." The leader, who seemed old enough to be a veteran, knitted his brow in a grim frown. "And they weren´t allied with the Orcs yet."

"I remember about that!" Pharazôn exclaimed. "When I was a child, their leaders were brought to Númenor. I was there, and it was the first time I saw a barbarian!"

"Why did they fight?" Amandil was curious to know what would make such a wretched people stand against the might of Númenor. Again, it was the veteran who answered.

"I don´t know. I just know why we fought them, and that´s because they started ambushing caravans and killing Númenoreans. They put their heads on spikes, and threw them over the wall. I saw one with the eyes ripped away." Eshmounazer, who had been revived by the water, let go of a smothered groan. " Now we do not allow their towns to be so close to Umbar anymore."

"Are you sure... are you sure those weren´t Orcs?" In all the tales that Amandil had heard, only dark creatures would do such things. But the veteran laughed, more unpleasantly than ever.

"Men can be worse than Orcs."

That night they camped at the side of the road, under a gnarled tree. The soldiers established the watches, and one of them warned Amandil not to take his mail away.

"All sorts of creatures roam the place at night. You wouldn´t want to lower your guard against them", he declared, with a solemn look. The young priest nodded, though now he could feel the metal freezing against his skin as much as it had boiled during the day.

It was difficult to sleep like this, lying in mail over the hard earth while the night chill dried his sweat and wrung shivers from his limbs. Amandil tossed and turned, uncomfortableness alternating with violent dreams that he couldn´t remember as soon as he opened his eyes to roll to the other side.

One of those times, he almost didn´t know if awake or asleep, he saw a figure standing under the moonlight. It was Abdashtart, wrapped in his cloak, as blue as the Lady´s mantle. He was pacing nervously, as if trying to shake away a persistent chill. Amandil tried to look at his face, but when he saw him come his way, instinct made him close his eyes and lie still.

His temples were throbbing with a growing headache as the light of dawn fell on them. He could see nobody at first; then he heard voices coming from the distance and struggled up. He rubbed his forehead, trying to ride the pain, and stood on his feet.

"What´s the matter?" he asked Eshmounazer, who was trying to catch bits of the conversation while he rolled his cloak. The young man´s hands froze.

"Something was heard tonight", he whispered. "I... think they´re worried that we may be followed."

"Followed? By whom?"

Eshmounazer gave him an ominous look.

"Just keep your sword close then, priest." Pharazôn approached them; apparently he also felt excluded from the discussion. His purple cloak was wrinkled and full of dust. "Orcs won´t bother us by daylight, but maybe those eye-gouging natives will pay us a visit."

"And you think that bull gore will protect you." It was useless to pretend in front of Eshmounazer, who was having trouble enough digesting all these alarming news.

Pharazôn patted the scabbard that hung from his waist.

"I will protect myself", he declared - maybe a little too confidently for Amandil´s liking. At that moment, the leader of the soldiers broke from the group and approached them. Abdashtart came behind him.

"Maybe you should think of going back, my lord", he told Pharazôn bluntly. The prince withstood his glance with ease.

"No."

"If you stay, and something happens..."

"If I go, how many of your soldiers would have to go with me? Our numbers would be halved, and that would serve nobody except our enemies. It´s better if we stick together."

The older man stared at him -and so, several steps behind and pretending to be busy with his things, did Amandil. Pharazôn did not sound confrontational; he also didn´t sound boasting or anything but calm and reasonable. This was so unlike him that he could not help feeling impressed.

So, apparently, did the soldier.

"Very well. I was telling the others that I had half a mind to send Lord Abdashtart with you, and leave the consecration of the temple to one of the young priests. But it´s true our numbers can´t bear much stretching..."

"The... ah, the prince is right", Abdashtart nodded. "His wisdom must come from his noble blood. And in any case, the consecrating should be done by a _senior_ priest."

Abdashtart was doing his best to keep his dignity, but Amandil could perceive that he _would_ have wanted to go back with Pharazôn. In the midst of the tension, his lips curved in a brief grin.

"Then it is decided. Now grab something to eat and let´s go before the sun falls on us!"

It was a curious sort of remark, but it applied perfectly to the sun of Umbar, which didn´t offer them any respite that day either. The road soon started meandering upwards, slowing their advance, and two of the soldiers kept falling back continuously, though it didn´t seem to Amandil that anyone could hide in such a dreary place.

An hour after midday, they reached the foot of a mountain pass. That land had no mountains like those in Númenor, with green slopes and trees, but ones entirely made of ragged, sand-coloured rock. A road had been excavated there too, wide enough for the caravans that came from the Númenórean city.

"Will it get much higher?" Eshmounazer asked, peering nervously at the widening ravine. It had been excavated by a river which might have been great once, but now it didn´t even deserve the name of stream. Amandil barely heard the current as it ran beneath them.

"Don´t look down, young man", a soldier warned. Their voices had an eerie echo. "You may lose your head and fall."

Eshmounazer jerked away abruptly, and someone chuckled. Still, Amandil noticed that nobody laughed as openly as the previous day. He looked up, at the crags of bare rock that hung above their heads like a silent threat. All of a sudden, the idea of enemy eyes following their steps seemed much more believable than before.

"I hope we don´t have to spend the night in this cursed ravine", someone muttered, when the shadows started to fall towards the East. One of the other soldiers started making an answer, but suddenly a terrible noise echoed through the pass, making their hairs stand on end. _It did not sound human..._

"A mountain goat", the leader explained. Amandil´s grip on the reins relaxed, and he felt his chest throb with suppressed laughter.

Darkness had already fallen by the time they came to the other side. It was a sharp descent, and Amandil found himself praying that the horses´s eyesight was better than his own, for he had great difficulties to see the path under their feet. When they finally left it, it seemed to him as if the ground had sprung up to meet them.

They were now at the foot of a large cliff, and the leader of the soldiers didn´t seem happy at the prospect of halting the march there. He tried to make the group advance under the moonlight, but the bulk of the mountain stood between it and them, allowing only a dim radiance to reach their side. One of the horses, the one that carried the sacred objects of the Goddess, tripped over a rock, causing them to rattle and fall from the bag.

In the end, Amandil did not know if out of common sense or superstition, he gave up and ordered them to make camp. Eshmounazer and him were not exempted from the watches that night, and the veteran even accepted Pharazôn´s offer to help. He seemed quite on edge as he gave them the instructions, repeating that any sound, no matter how inoffensive it seemed to them, should be immediately reported, and everybody roused. Each should be holding their watch far away from the others, so all sides of the camp would be equally covered and they wouldn´t fall to the temptation of distracting their companions. Amandil found himself sitting right under the cliff, pressing the sword hilt to his chest and feeling like something was bound to happen.

"There!" someone cried, when the moon was already about to rise from the crags. Amandil stood up as if impelled by a resort, sword in hand, and he heard the clang of metal all around him.

It was Eshmounazer. He stood twenty feet away from him, his sword-hand frozen in mid-wave, and staring in dazed astonishment at something that stood before him. Amandil and the others arrived just in time to see a hare bolt off in fright.

"I..." He looked down. "I am sorry... I thought..."

One of the soldiers, the same who had teased him earlier in the day about the cliff, clapped his shoulder.

"You heard a sound and reported it. You did well."

Slowly, the camp seemed to go back to normal. The sentries walked back to their posts, and those who were sleeping huddled under their cloaks again.

Amandil laid the sword over his crossed legs, and looked up with a frown. If Orcs were like he had imagined them, they would raise such a ruckus coming down the cliff that even a sleeping man would hear it. In this strange land, however, not much was like he had imagined it. Maybe anything was possible... maybe Orcs were as stealthy as the natives, and the natives were as cruel as the Orcs...

He fixed his stare so hard, that soon he began to see undulating shapes that faded as soon as he turned towards them. Weariness was starting to prey on him, and he fought it by standing up and forcing his aching legs to walk in circles. Now and then, he turned sharply towards the side of the cliff, but he saw nothing there.

When someone approached him from behind, his sword was out if its sheath before he realized it was one of his companions.

"It´s my turn now. You try to rest for a while, tomorrow you´ll need it", he grumbled, shaking his head to banish the last traces of sleep away. Amandil nodded gravely, and was about to leave when he heard a scream.

It had come from within the camp. Everybody was awake, as the change of guard had just taken place, and there was considerable confusion as they turned towards the campfire. The flickering glow of the flames fell upon a feverish face.

"Lord Abdashtart?" Confused, Eshmounazer approached him, but the priest jerked back. The scream had come from his lips, which were now trembling and muttering things that nobody could make out clearly. His eyes had a deranged look.

"Lord Abdashtart, what...?"

"Go back!" he shouted, in a shrill voice that did not seem to belong to Amandil´s dignified superior. "She is furious. She will kill us! You must go back _now_!"

"Who is...?"The eyes of the leader fell upon the bag of the sacred objects, which had been carefully wrapped again by Eshmounazer after the earlier mishap. He fell silent, and Amandil could perceive fear gathering in the depths of the veteran´s eyes.

"We are going to die!" Abdashtart continued, oblivious to Eshmounazer and the soldiers who told him to calm down. "We are _all_ going to die!"

"You must have had a dream. Yes." The leader walked towards the priest, nodding as if to himself. "A dream, not..."

Suddenly, as he watched him, Amandil experienced something terrible, more terrible than all the visions and hthe dreams. It was a dark premonition, that took his breath away as if a boulder of rock had collided against his chest. For a moment, he could do nothing but reel from the impact. Then, as he saw the black spear hanging from the man´s neck, his hand went to his sword, and he rose to meet the enemy with a deep cry.

Behind him, he heard the others struggle with their shock and grab their weapons, but he was a step ahead of them. Over and over again, he thrust and parried, and his sword cut through armour and flesh. A horrible face twisted in agony under the moonlight, and he looked at it in dark fascination, _so this was what an Orc looked like._

Many of the people who had taught him moves in Númenor had warned him that killing was different from pretending; that he needed great presence of mind and nerves of steel to be able to do it. But this was completely different. He was standing at the edge of life and death, and everything he had ever learned came to him as a second nature. Behind him, Abdashtart´s screams stopped abruptly.

One of the Orcs charged at him with an axe; Amandil stepped aside and went for his raised arm, which he severed with his blade. The Orc fell to the ground with a grating shriek, and a jet of dark blood stained his clothes. He felt no nausea, no revulsion; it felt unreal, like one of his violent dreams that he couldn´t remember afterwards. Still, this gave him a brief respite, and he took the chance to look around him. The foul creatures of Mordor were everywhere, and the ground was full of bodies.

Fear crept inside him, fraying his battle frenzy at the edges. _Was this how he was meant to die, a world away from his island and his heritage? And Pharazôn... where was he?_

One of the creatures spoke words, in a language that he couldn´t understand. Still, he could see that he was gesturing towards him. At least three Orcs advanced towards where he was.

Desperately, he unsheathed his dagger with his left hand, and wielded both blades. His son Halideyid´s lesson about distracting enemies by preying on their insecurities came now to his mind like a flash of irony. He wanted to laugh at the uselessness of it all -Orcs had no insecurities. They had been born and bred with one single purpose, to kill.

_I am glad you are not here,_ he thought, wondering how long it would take for Halideyid and Amalket to hear of his death. _But of course, you weren´t meant to be here -you were meant to live._

The Orcs began spreading, intending to surround him. If he let them achieve their manouevre, he was dead, he realized with the certainty of a much more experienced warrior. Taking breath and steeling himself against the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, he charged.

His sword sank on the Orc that stood to the right, who growled in shock at the unexpected attack. The other two threw themselves on him, and he barely had the time to think before he stabbed one in the face with his dagger. The scream was terrible as the creature clawed at it blindly, trying to staunch the flow of blood and the pain, but it tripped on his comrade´s body and fell over it. Amandil groaned; his sword was trapped now under them, and the third Orc was upon him.

"Die!" he growled in the tongue of Men. Amandil threw himself on the ground, just in time before the powerful sweep of the creature´s axe found his neck. From that position, he kicked at his legs, trying to make him trip and lose his advantage. The manouevre did not work, and he stretched the dagger in front of him, knowing that it would be useless to stop the next attack. If only he had the time to struggle to his feet... or even draw closer, so he could stab at the leg...

All of a sudden, the Orc stopped, his monstruous features contorted by something other than triumph. A blade protruded from his chest, cutting even his mouldy armour plate. Amandil tried to see who had saved him, but this brief distraction proved fatal, as the body fell heavily upon him.

Darkness came upon him then, and he saw nothing more.

o-o-o-o-o-o

The throbbing in the side of his head was worse than ever. It kept intruding in his dreams, where a woman with honey eyes and a tall young man welcomed him home. He tried to ride the pain, to make it disappear and return to them, but it wouldn´t let go, prodding him slowly but surely towards awakening.

He heard grisly voices, addressing someone in broken Adûnaic. _Orcs._ The full horror of that night came upon him for the first time, as he relived their monstruous faces and the horrifying frenzy of battle. It threatened to overpower him, but as he started shaking in his bonds -his hands had been tied to his back-, a new voice gave him pause.

"Of course he is someone important. He is my kinsman!"

_Pharazôn!_ He was alive...

"He has no shiny things on him!" the Orc barked accusingly. "Just like others!"

"That´s because he´s a priest ", the prince replied without skipping a beat. "But of course you would be too stupid to know what that means, wouldn´t you?"

Amandil heard the sound of an impact, accompanied by a groan, and winced. Pharazôn had _never_ learned when to keep his mouth shut.

At least, he thought, he seemed to have given the creatures something to think about. He opened his eyes slightly, and saw that they were inside a cave. He and Pharazôn were lying side by side, but their captors had retreated to the vicinity of a fire, where they kept talking in that raspy language of theirs while examining the weapons, mailshirts and objects they had looted.

"So you are awake." The whisper tickled his ear. He tried to nod as discreetly as he could, but nobody was paying attention to them anymore.

"The others?" he asked. Pharazôn´s hair was matted with dried blood, and his face was dirty. One of his eyes was dark and swollen; the Orc must have hit him there.

"Dead." he replied. Amandil was shocked.

" _All_?" He thought of that veteran soldier, survivor of many battles. He thought of Eshmounazer, brought this far against his will.

"They´re going to deliver us to some "man chief". I suppose he´s from the folk that´s so fond of playing ball with Númenórean heads, after ripping off their eyes."

That did not sound reassuring, indeed. Amandil felt his bonds, trying to gauge how strong and tight they were.

"They know how to make knots, if not much else. But you could try tricking that one into setting you free." Pharazôn´s chin pointed towards an especially gruesome Orc who was carrying sticks to fuel the fire. He had only one eye, and no nose. "I think it may be female."

Amandil did not laugh.

"How can you make jokes? Aren´t you afraid?"

_Aren´t you afraid?_ Someone had asked him that in the Forbidden Bay, in another world. There had been need in his voice, a need that Amandil had never acknowledged. And now, he was dead.

_Not if I have my sword_ , he had answered back then, arrogantly. Now he didn´t even have a knife, and his hands were tied.

"How can I be afraid of _them_? They´re worms with legs!"

He was either a fool, Amandil thought, or the bravest man in Númenor. Probably the first, but he still retained that ability to give him heart when no reasonable words would.

The conversation between the Orcs had turned into an argument, or so it seemed by the way they raised their voices and one of them threw another against the wall. Amandil struggled harder.

"That´s not the way", Pharazôn told him. " I have something on me that can cut it, they didn´t take it off. It´s hanging on a chain, but I can open it with my teeth. Then, you will pick it up with your fingers and try to cut my bonds. After I´m free, I´ll free you. Agreed?"

Amandil nodded. He thought how difficult it would be to pull all those manouevres without giving themselves away, but at least it was a plan.

"Agreed", he replied, and stretched his neck a little to stand watch on his captors while his friend busied himself with the chain. For now, they seemed too busy to notice.

It took Pharazôn quite a long while to find the clasp, and even longer to work how to open it. As it finally flew open with a click, a glowing object slid over his chest. Amandil saw it was a jewel... a large sea-green stone, wrought in a silver engraving of magnificent beauty.

"There´s no cutting edges in this!" he hissed.

"There is. Chip on the lower edge, from the battle earlier." For a moment, he looked pensive, even as he lowered himself on his left flank so the jewel would slide to Amandil´s side. "It does seem to be an amulet of some sort..."

"Quiet out there!" one of the Orcs growled in their direction. Amandil froze, afraid that they would be coming anytime now, see the jewel and guess their intentions. But after a moment, the Orc just turned away, thumping another who had seized the chance to steal something from his bag of spoils. The ensuing struggle almost became a full-fledged fight, with the other Orcs urging them on with vicious shouts, until the biggest of the bunch -probably the leader- jumped in the middle and pulled them apart. One of them fell to the ground, and the big Orc kicked him on the gut.

"What are you doing?" Pharazôn hissed. Suddenly, Amandil realized that he had been watching the creatures in revolted fascination instead of focusing on the task at hand. He crawled on the ground, stretching his arms as much as the ropes allowed him. The jewel was still out of his reach, and he clenched his teeth.

"Again", he grunted, sliding a bit further under the impulse of his feet on the cave floor. This time, he could reach the jewel. Pharazôn whispered the instructions until his fingers finally touched the hard edge, and closed upon it. The chipped part was small, but it would have to do.

Just as he was having that thought, he felt a sharp pain, and something wet trickled down his finger. He cursed.

"It cut me!" The turmoil near the fire quietened abruptly. His heart started beating loudly against his chest, _had the Orcs heard him?_

It wasn´t until much later that he dared resume his task. As he lay limp on the ground, he could feel the blood oozing from his finger to the floor. _At least it is sharp,_ he thought, forcing himself to calm down.

And slippery,he added in his mind when he realized the effects of the liquid on his palm. He tried to hold it with his clean hand, but after some clumsy manouevres it was all smeared. Cursing again, this time soundlessly, he set to doing his work as well as he could.

It was no easy thing, between the blood and the uncomfortableness of his position, and the fact that he couldn´t see what he was doing as he lay with his back to Pharazôn. Still, somehow he managed to make the jewel connect with the rope, and pressed there with rhythmic sawing movements. They were now so close that he could perceive the tension in his friend´s body as he, too, tried to stretch his arms backwards.

The ropes didn´t start giving way under Amandil´s awkward sawing until a while later. When he noticed his progress, he redoubled his efforts. _Soon, they would be free. And then..._

He frowned, pausing a moment in his work as he wondered what they were going to do next. The Orcs still outnumbered them, they couldn´t run away in the dead of the night through an unfamiliar country, and the first to check on them would notice that they were not tied anymore. And then they could take some of them by surprise... but _all_?

"What are we going to do next?" he whispered to Pharazôn. The answer was almost too distant to hear, though they were so close. A bitter smell of blood was reaching his nostrils in waves.

"We create a diversion."

_A diversion of what?_ Amandil wondered. He resumed his work in growing frustration. What kind of harebrained plan was his friend hatching? Pharazôn had never been the calculating type, and if he was just acting on impulses this time they would both die because of it. Even his lack of fear was starting to exasperate him. If only he could be sure he understood how serious their situation was...

The last rope gave way unexpectedly, and Amandil could not keep the improvised saw from slipping and falling to the ground with a loud clang. His eyes widened in horror. This time, the Orcs must have heard it, no matter how they pretended to lie still.

His eyes were closed, so he could only hear the heavy footsteps and the clang of metal approaching him. He opened a very narrow slit, to be prepared for what would happen, and saw the biggest Orc -the one he had assumed to be the leader-, walking towards them. Fear paralyzed him for a moment.

_He was still tied._

"What´s that noise, you bloody Númenor curs?" he growled, hovering over them. His malicious eyes immediately found the jewel. "That´s shiny."

The last words were spoken less in anger, and more in a low voice which could almost have been called reverential. Now, he would want to claim the shiny thing... and maybe he would be too busy to notice the severed ropes, and too stupid to wonder what they had been doing with the cutting edge.

A black hand darted towards the jewel, greedily picking it up. Just as it did so, a horrible, keening scream rent the thick air of the cave. Amandil opened his eyes, astonished. The Orc was writhing in pain right before his eyes.

Pharazôn did not hesitate a second. He seized the dropped jewel, jumped to his feet and pressed it against the Orc´s face. A sizzling noise followed, and a smell of charred meat that made Amandil nauseous, as vivid remembrances of childhood nightmares flashed through his mind. Blind and mad with agony, the creature couldn´t prevent Pharazôn from pulling the axe from his side and striking him with it.

A dreadful noise of clanging and banging echoed across the cave, as the other Orcs realized what was happening and rushed from their seats to charge at them. Amandil heard their battle screams, and tried desperately to free himself from his bonds. Before him, Pharazôn had adopted a battle stance, the axe in one hand and the jewel in the other.

It was obvious that the creatures were more afraid of the latter, that magic devilry that would burn their flesh as soon as it touched them. For a moment, which seemed to stretch for the length of an age, they watched it warily, not daring to approach. Then, one of them let go of a low growl, and charged.

Amandil crawled on all fours, just in time to prevent the Orc´s body from falling on top of him like before. Dark blood oozed from the severed arm, but he was more interested in the battle axe that protruded from beneath the corpse. Trying not to look at the battle, or allow himself to be distracted, he turned his back to it, put the ropes against the blade and started sawing again. Curses, more screams and the burning smells assailed his senses as he worked.

When the ropes gave way, it wasn´t a moment too soon. He barely had time to pick up the axe in his own, numbed fingers and struggle to his feet before two Orcs hurled themselves at him. He hacked at them, losing himself in the instinctive frenzy of battle. As he did so, the change came upon him again, and he did not feel cornered and hopeless anymore.

_He could fight now._

There was no way to keep count of how many Orcs came at him, or how many he killed. For a moment, Pharazôn´s staggering figure flashed into view, and Amandil realized that he had lost his weapon. He wanted to help him, but another growling Orc came between them, and he was forced to fight for his own life.

This time, rage overthrew instinct, turning his deadly, measured moves into desperate thrusts. That caused the curtain to fall open for a moment, baring his mind, and he became aware of the carnage -the dark blood flowing everywhere and the bodies that lay strewn around him, wounded, hacked, maimed. The axe he was holding sank on the creature´s throat, which let go of a sharp whistling sound as he fell to the ground, twitching. When Amandil pulled it away, another jet of blood burst through. No other Orc remained in his vicinity, and he stood still, pale and shaken to the core.

"Fuck!"

The expletive yanked him from his daze. Pharazôn, as a last resort, had thrown the jewel at his pursuer´s eyes like a rock. His aim had been true, and it was a terrible sight as the creature tried in vain to pull it away before it burned his face. _Men can be worse than Orcs_ , the thought came unbidden to his mind.

Then, Pharazôn fell to his knees, and the thought became distant and strange, as if other person had thought it. Amandil pulled a rusty sword from the corpse´s fingers, and with a weapon in each hand, gave a battle yell and ran with all his might towards the two Orcs who were about to spear his friend. They were not expecting him: the first died with a look of shock etched upon his eyes, and the second with a curse.

They were the last.

The axe and the sword fell to the ground with a sharp clang. Amandil´s hands trembled; nothing seemed real to him. He turned towards Pharazôn, and saw his bloody lips curve in a smile.

Anger and frustration coursed through him, though they could find no target. _The target is dead now_ , he thought _, they are all dead now._

"Good diversion." Pharazôn mumbled, before falling unconscious to the floor.


	40. Interlude V: Crossroads

" _Min...tâd... nel... canâd. Min...tâd... nel... canâd._ " The woman opened her eyes again to search the book that lay on her lap. A large, yellowish stain obscured the lower half of the page. " _Leben, eneg, odog, toloth, neder."_ She looked up. " _Leben... eneg... neder..._ no, _leben, odog, neder..._ curse it!"

She slammed the book shut, causing a cloud of dust to rise in the air, and glared at the cover.

"Why are you doing this?"

Zarhil´s brow unfurrowed. Puzzled, she turned towards her daughter, who at some moment had entered the room and sat on a low chair near the window while she was engrossed in her study. She didn´t know how long she had been there, watching her struggle with the slippery language.

"Oh, Zimraphel." Her lips curved in a welcoming smile, and she beckoned to her. "Come closer... look at this."

The young woman did not move. She sat like a queen, pale white against black and the gleam of silver jewels.

"Why are you learning Elvish?" she asked. Zarhil set the book aside with care, as if suddenly remembering how frail it was.

"When your father is the King, he intends to restore the use of the Elvish tongue, as it was spoken in the Númenor of old", she explained. "If we use it daily, and also the lords of Sorontil and Andúnië, who are the oldest noble houses in Númenor, the others will think it´s distinguished and they will follow."

"So you are learning it for him." Zimraphel frowned. "Why?"

"Why, because he is my husband, and this is important to him!" Zarhil replied, shaking her head as if it was something obvious. But her daughter wasn´t impressed.

"You didn´t choose to marry him. You don´t owe him anything."

The Princess of the West bit her lip. Since she had been a little girl, shaking from her nightmares, Zimraphel had had a penchant for saying things that would upset her. It wasn´t her fault, her illness made her act like that. _And still..._

"It is true that we didn´t know each other when we were betrothed, Zimraphel, my child", she explained, in the gentle tone that she had learned only after the girl was born. "But after living together for years, love will grow between two people. The proof of this is that you are here."

This angered Zimraphel.

"I am not a child." Her tone was cutting. "A baby isn´t proof of anything, even rape can produce it."

"Well, that´s definitely not what happened!"

Zarhil had lost her patience for a moment and raised her voice, appalled at such a crude statement. However, she regretted it almost at once, when Zimraphel´s eyes became veiled and strange.

"I am sorry, my dear." Zarhil struggled to her feet, and stood behind her to stroke her hair. "I only wanted you to understand." _I only want you to stop hating him. It´s not his fault, it never was._

For a while, there was silence.

"Mother... did you ever go to Middle-Earth in your travels of old?" the grey eyes asked then, becoming larger as they looked up to search for hers. Zarhil´s hands stopped stroking, and for a moment she looked at them in wary silence. Why would she bring up this subject now? Would she try to twist her finger inside the wound, to see if she could bring forth a hidden resentment?

Sadly, she wondered when she had started attributing such dark thoughts to her own daughter.

"I have sailed the shores of the mainland, and laid anchor on them countless times. I have seen the frozen North and the deserts of the South, and the barbarians who live there."

"Is it dangerous?"

Zarhil shrugged, surprised.

"It can be. Middle-Earth is so large that it would be able to hold a thousand islands the size of Númenor. It also holds many races, animals and plants that we have never seen here, so it would be as difficult to describe it as it is to describe the colour of the sky when the sun sets."

Zimraphel pressed her cheek against her mother´s hand, so that her voice came out a little muffled.

"Have you ever been to Umbar?"

"I have. Why?"

"Is it safe?"

Zarhil did not know where her daughter wanted to lead this. She wasn´t going to Umbar. She didn´t know anybody there. Maybe, in one of her vivid dreams...?

"It is. The King´s soldiers are there to protect the people against Orcs and the barbarian tribes."

"Have you ever seen an Orc?"

"Yes. They are foul creatures." Zarhil almost spat on the floor, but then she remembered that she was a princess. "Cowardly, too. They will crawl out of their holes at night, when it´s dark, and will only attack a Númenorean if their numbers are much greater."

Zimraphel seemed to ponder this for a while.

"I see. There should be nothing to fear, then."

Zarhil shook her head, and caressed her daughter´s cheek. _Almost surely a dream,_ she thought. Triggered by something she must have overheard, as everybody in the Western wing was under strict instructions not to tell any tales to her.

"Of course not, my child. You are safe here. Orcs fear water as much as they fear Númenoreans."

Zimraphel smiled. This was so rare a sight that it brought a knot to her mother´s throat. It was as if the sun shone in her face, and gave it a new life.

_If only she smiled more..._

The young princess leaned forwards, and picked the Sindarin book that she had discarder earlier. She passed a finger over the unfamiliar letters, as if tracing an invisible line, and handed it back to her mother.

"They look like worms", she laughed.

*     *     *     *     *

"So you wanted to see me?"

Halideyid turned towards the source of the voice: a bulky man who wore a leather overcoat under the folds of a green cape. Though the top of his head barely reached the young man´s chest, he stood before him with an air of impatient superiority, fixing him with a stare of his small, beady eyes.

"I did." In a gesture of respect, Halideyid lowered the wooden sword that had been slung over his shoulder, but did not bow. Their glances met. "I... wanted to ask something."

"Then go ahead and ask it. I have things to do."

Behind them, the sound of a hundred boys and young men gathering their things and talking among themselves grew as the other lessons were also finished. Halideyid tried to speak, but the noise drowned his words. For a moment he hesitated, turning a furtive look towards the source of the ruckus, but he couldn´t wait for it to stop. Taking a sharp breath, he raised his voice.

"Am I going to be made a Guard soon?"

The man did not look pleased.

"Eh? What kind of question is that? Even if you´re allowed to give those lessons, you´re nobody special here. You will wait like the others did!"

Halideyid did not back down. He stared at the points of his feet, his forehead curving in a frown.

"I have waited more than any of the others did. And my grandfather..."

"I know, I know, he was a good friend of mine." The Guard´s tone became less agressive, almost friendly for a moment. "Look, son, you have to understand. We´ve had no vacants in a while. If you wait for a while longer..."

"Three have been filled only this year. I taught two of them." Halideyid retorted. The man´s good mood vanished as soon as it had come.

"You forget your place", he hissed.

The young instructor looked directly at him again. He seemed to be gaining aplomb at each word he said.

"I just want to know what my place is. And why people who are younger, more inexpert with the sword and with a lesser claim are put before me, one after another."

The Guard seemed about to burst. His face took a deep purple colour, and for a moment it seemed like he would try to strike him. Halideyid´s size, however, gave him pause.

"With a lesser claim? W _ith a lesser claim?_ " he laughed loudly instead. "Who has a lesser claim than you? We don´t even know who your father is!"

Halideyid paled. After a moment, he nodded.

"I see", he said, his voice much lower than before. "Just as I thought."

"Well, then!"

"Now, I can leave this place with no more regrets."

" _What?_ " The Guard looked as if the floor had been suddenly pulled away from his feet. He stared at him, his small eyes bulging, and his mouth half-open. "Wait! You can´t be serious!"

Halideyid slung the wooden sword over his shoulder again, and for a fraction of a second the man stepped back, feeling instinctively threatened. This gave him the opportunity to turn away.

"You... don´t know what you are saying! If you go now, you will walk away on your mother´s family and their heritage! You will have no future!" the Guard yelled behind his back. A few stragglers from the lesson stopped in their tracks, shocked at the scene. Halideyid concentrated on ignoring them, as he concentrated on ignoring the raging man.

"Come back! I won´t tell anybody what has happened here!"

With one step, he crossed the threshold. With the second, he was in the street. He turned briefly to look at the gates, gates he would never be able to cross again. Nobody came after him.

_It was done._

As he walked through the crowded alleyways towards his home, still shaking, Halideyid could not help but wonder if some power in his father´s blood could have given him the courage.

*     *     *     *     *

"Halideyid! What are you doing?"

The young man looked up from his work, and found his mother standing on the threshold. She was holding a piece of paper in her hands; other, identical ones were lying on the floor at her feet.

"Advertisements", he said. "For lessons."

"I can see that." Amalket made her way through the room, trying not to step on any of the papers. "And when are you going to teach them, at midnight?"

"During the day. I will have more time for that now, since I left the Guards."

It was a bit cowardly to disguise it like that, almost as if he was expecting that she wouldn´t notice. A far cry from his determination that morning, but this was his mother, and the truth was that he hadn´t even decided what he would say to her yet.

"You left the Guards", she nodded, also mirroring his deceptively calm tone. "I see. Why?"

Halideyid drew the last letter, and crossed it with a sharp line.

"Because..." He sought within himself for the courage he had felt before. _It had to be there, somewhere._ "I asked them if they would honour my claim, and they said they wouldn´t. So there was no point in staying."

Amalket nodded again, this time in silence. Halideyid winced.

"Mother..."

She knelt on the floor, and started picking up scattered papers to arrange them in a neat pile. Her eyes showed no emotion.

"Indeed not." Suddenly, her lips curved in a strange smile. "No point at all."

"Eh?" Halideyid stared at her, puzzled. Whatever reaction he had been expecting, it hadn´t been this.

The pile of papers fell on her lap, and scattered again as a tear ran down her cheek.

"Mother, I´m sorry, I didn´t want to make you upset..." He stood up, and walked towards her, but she grabbed his hand.

"Your... grandfather wouldn´t have... stood for it either", she said, in a tremulous voice. "H-he would have said you´re well rid of them. They would have never w-wanted you there." Anger veiled her eyes. "Well, we don´t need them!"

Halideyid watched in astonishment as his mother started picking the papers back with a feverish determination. He did not know what to say, but she saved him the trouble.

"Here", she said, handing the pile to him. "Do you want me to help you?"

"What?" He blinked, thinking. "I... I would be grateful, but... well... I can´t very well offer swordmanship lessons in a woman´s handwriting..."

"You idiot!" she cried. Then, she threw herself against him.

Slowly, Halideyid reacted, and laid a clumsy arm around her shoulders. He felt a knot rise in his throat, and wondered if the world had gone mad.

"One day, your father will come back", she whispered against his chest. "I promise you, he will."


	41. The Heart of Darkness, Part II

 

 

**The Heart of Darkness, Part II**

 

 

 

The silence after the battle was heavy, and full of echoes in his mind. Forcing himself to keep his turmoil under check, he explored the place searching for their things, which he found in the bags of Orcs together with the spoils of their dead companions. The discovery of Eshmounazer´s sword brought a pang to his stomach, but there was no time for grief now. He retrieved Pharazôn´s things, and threw the rest to the floor so he could later choose among them.

The Orc fire was the only light in the cave, which became dimmer and dimmer as he went deep inside it. It didn´t seem to have an end that he could see, which made him remember stories about Orcs and underground tunnels. Maybe, he thought, that passage could lead them to the other side of the mountains, where Umbar was. But it was just as possible that they would run into more Orcs in the darkness.

At last, he found what looked like the warehouse of the place. Kneeling, he sought among maggoty animal carcasses, knives and dusty armour plates until he stumbled upon a row of wooden casks. He opened one of them and sniffed inside; the smell told him that the substance was strong. Close by, he found jars, and he filled one of them with the contents of the cask.

There was no sign of anything that could be used for medicinal purposes. Maybe Orcs did not treat their wounds, and just let their companions die like dogs. That wouldn´t be at odds with what Amandil had seen and heard of them so far. Whether they had been the servants of Morgoth in the dark pits of his fortress, as his mother used to tell him, or created out of divine wrath against the Elves, as the lore of the Four Temples taught, they were foul beasts.

He stood up. Alcohol and cloth bandages would have to do. There were two large wounds, one on the right leg and the other on the flank, right under the arm. He had quenched the flow of blood as he could, tying it with the first, makeshift bandages he could lay hands on, which had been torn from the clothes worn by the nearest corpse. Disinfecting and healing would be much harder, though. He had never done it before, by himself, but he couldn´t afford to be less than decisive now.

Returning to Pharazôn´s side, he tore the bandages from the leg, and recoiled when the blood started flowing again. He tied it back hurriedly, and set himself to prepare new bandages from Abdashtart´s finery, dabbing them in the Orc beverage. His friend stirred, mumbling words that Amandil couldn´t understand. Panic was there, festering in his stomach and ready to take control at any moment, but once again he didn´t allow it to. _He would patch him, get both of them to a safe place._

He turned away, and his glance stopped at the corpses that lay strewn around them. _The jewel._ He had to find the jewel. It was Pharazôn´s amulet, and it protected him. If he got it back, superstitious as he was, he would feel much better and stop muttering.

_That jewel had really burned the Orc´s flesh._

This was another of the many things he had been trying to keep locked away in a corner of his mind, but as he walked among the rows of dead Orcs looking for the familiar green and silver gleam, it came back. What kind of power had that been ...had it been the power of Melkor or Ashtarte-Uinen? He couldn´t imagine Pharazôn wearing anything that belonged to any other god, and yet it had worked as he had never seen divine might work before his eyes. It was disturbing to think -so much that, for a moment, he longed to turn away and abandon his search.

As he stood there, however, pulled by contradictory impulses, he spotted it at last. It was still where he had last seen it, stuck to the Orc face it had ravaged. The flesh was burned all around it, swelling into a terrible shape, and the eyes were gone. Mastering his repugnance, he stretched a careful hand, almost expecting to be burned himself, but it felt as cool as before. He lifted it easily, as if it had never adhered to the creature´s face with a vicelike and invisible grip.

Unnerved, he began moving away, when suddenly something made him freeze in his tracks. A strange smell reached his nostrils, not of blood and filth and charred meat, but of something sweet and invigorating that reminded him of stolen hours under the trees of the Bay. Quickly, he sought for the source, and lifted the dead limb to pull a bough of green leaves that lay underneath.

It was a plant he had never seen before, with deep green leaves that did not seem spoiled or stained by the battle that had taken place right over them. As he held it over his palm, and though he did not know very well why, Amandil was certain that it was a medicine, destined to bring healing. But how could Orcs keep something like this, they who hated trees and plants as much as the sun that nourished them?

Maybe it had been brought by one of his own group as part of a survival kit. They had been experienced warriors, who knew what was needed in the wilderness. He took another, deep smell, and he was convinced of this theory. Determination seemed to ooze from that plant like magic.

Everything seemed easier now. When Amandil knelt before Pharazôn´s unconscious form, it was as if someone was whispering in his ear what to do. He undid the bandages again, and checked that the flow of blood had almost stemmed. He took the new ones, dripping with alcohol, tied them around the wound and put the leaves inside them. Then, he repeated the same operation with the other wound.

Pharazôn did not even stir, but he stopped mumbling and fell into a deep sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

Under the dim light, he saw that the mouth of the cave was very close to their encampment. This must have been how the creatures had been able to take them by surprise, then. Anger grew inside him as he discovered the trampled fireside and the gutted horses. The corpses had been lined in a row, stripped of their valuables, and beheaded. It was a terrible sight, but at least he couldn´t recognize their dead features anymore, which helped him retain a measure of detachment. He had no time to give them a proper burial, or a Prince of Númenor might join them.

This if all the jolting didn´t make his wounds bleed again, he thought in worry as they slowly made it back to the Númenórean road under the cliff, the unconscious prince leaning against his shoulder. It looked so much wider now that he was on foot – wider and longer. And more than anything, it looked empty, of the caravans and parties that should have been travelling back and forth from Umbar to carry their merchandise to the outposts. One of those would be their salvation, and yet they hadn´t met a soul since they set forth from the Second Wall.

The sun rose in the sky, its rays falling pitilessly on Amandil´s head and shoulders. He felt himself boil under the mail, and the ache in his muscles had dulled until he couldn´t even feel them anymore. There was no food, no water to be had in that ghastly land, which became more and more barren as they progressed. At some point, Pharazôn started mumbling things again, and Amandil´s teeth clenched.

He had lost all notion of time and distance when they came to a place where the road gave an abrupt turn and left the side of the cliff. In the distance, he could distinguish a strange red shape under a row of trees. Blinking his sweat away, he tried to focus his glance on it, and the shape started to shake until it became a red blur. If it had been in any other circumstances, he might have been wary, but now he felt there was little to lose anymore -and nothing if he let the night fall on them, or collapsed from lack of water and exhaustion. He gave Pharazôn´s body a painful heave, and set towards it.

It was a house, but very unlike those of the Númenóreans. Something between a hut and a tent, it stood low and draped in red cloth. As he drew even closer, he could distinguish the silhouettes of two people sitting before the entrance, wrapped in white fabrics. Judging by the difference in their build, they had to be a woman and a man, dark-skinned and small like the barbarians he had seen in Umbar. The man was sharpening a knife, which slipped from his hands as he became aware of their presence. Quickly, the woman stood up and ran towards the safety of their home.

_Just a small peasant household._ And, by the looks of it, more afraid of him than he was of them, he thought, picking up the courage to approach the place.

"I come in peace. We need help", he announced in a cracked voice, wondering if they would understand him. Or believe him, seeing that he was fully armed. "My friend is hurt."

The man, who had picked up the knife again and was fingering it nervously, levelled them with an anxious look. He said something in a language that Amandil couldn´t understand.

"Can we go in?" he insisted. "We just need some food and rest... and something for the wounds, if you would be so kind?" _Useless._ "Food. Rest. Medicine." he repeated slowly, trying to mimick the motions with his free hand.

"Right. In", the man nodded, in accented Adûnaic. He stepped away from the entrance, bowing in sudden obsequiousness, but Amandil could perceive that he didn´t want to stand anywhere near the reach of his sword. "Mighty sea lords."

Before Amandil could thank him, the man shouted more words in his language. Two women immediately came out of the shelter, hiding their faces behind the cloth they wore and peering at them in trepidation.

"There´s beds inside, to the right. I will bring food and everything", one of them said in Adûnaic. She had the voice of a younger woman, but without seeing her face, Amandil couldn´t be sure.

Heartened by the prospect of rest, however, he dragged Pharazôn inside and blinked the gleam of the sun away from his eyes. The structure of the building was sustained by a skeleton of wooden poles tied with ropes, but there was cloth everywhere, forming the ceiling, the walls and even the floor. There was no furniture to be seen, though as he lifted one of those heavy red fabrics to enter the secluded space to the right, he found three heaps of blankets which he assumed to be beds. He put Pharazôn on one of those, and pulled away his clothes to look at the bandages.

To his surprise, there was barely any blood in them. The scent of the leaves he had found on the cave floor reached his nostrils, and for a moment, in spite of his sore throat, the hurt in his muscles and his parched lips, he felt rested.

"Here." A plate was pulled in his direction, but as he turned towards the woman he could only see a blur of white fabric disappearing behind the red. They would not be in the same room as them, Amandil realized. He wondered what made them so scared. They seemed peaceful folk, a peasant family who lived from the land and minded their own business.

_They´ve always hated us, call us usurpers, tyrants and thieves._ The words of that old sailor came back to his mind as he grabbed a jar of dark liquid that smelled strongly of herbs. He winced, and not only because it was tepid.

The soldiers had spoken of wars, of fierce natives and a relentless rivalry. They would even go as far as to establish alliances with Mordor, to welcome Orcs into their homes and fight alongside them. They would do all that, and yet flee from him, who was a man like them. What had prompted that attitude, that emmity and mistrust?

Carefully, he dabbed some of the liquid over his friend´s forehead. Pharazôn had begun stirring again, but to Amandil´s relief, he wasn´t burning.

"Is there...?" He felt ridiculous shouting in that empty place, without knowing if his hosts were there or a mile away. "Are there any clean bandages around here?"

Nobody answered him. He sighed, and crawled out of the place.

The rest of the house was also empty, so he had to step outside. The sunlight blinded him and forced him to rub his eyes with his hands. As he let them fall back to his side, a figure emerged before him.

It was one of the women, the one who had spoken before. Now she had thrown the veil back on her forehead, and her features were those of a young woman, pretty enough in spite of the hue and hardness of her skin. Her eyes were large and coal black.

"Excuse me..." he began carefully, afraid that she would run away. But she didn´t seem scared any longer. She stared at him in an appraising way, standing her ground as he approached her. "I need bandages. For my friend."

"Bandages", she nodded. Then, she motioned towards the entrance. "Inside."

Amandil was heartened at her daring, and still a little uncomfortable as he followed her.  _Where had the others gone?_

The young woman _-the girl?_ \- held a red cloth open for him. It wasn´t the piece to the right where Pharazôn was resting, however, but the one on the opposite side of the entrance. That shelter barely deserved to be called a house, and yet it was bigger than it seemed at first sight.

He picked up the cloth with his own hand, going in after her. Just as he released it behind him, she stopped in her tracks abruptly, and he bumped against her back.

"What...?"

The question remained unspoken, for all of a sudden she turned back and kissed him. Amandil felt her lips connect forcefully with his, and a sweet taste of warm cinnamon as her tongue entered his mouth. For a moment, the frightening strength of those sensations kept him rooted to the spot.

Then, he remembered himself, and pulled away.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

She looked taken aback, but only for a brief moment. Her parted lips curved in a lusty smile, and she yanked the cloth from her head completely. A thick mass of dark, braided hair came in sight. One of her hands started playing with the strands that had broken out of the cord.

"You are tall", she said. "And handsome."

It may have been the experiences of the last days, or the exhaustion, or the lack of nourishment, but Amandil could not think of anything to say to this. He stood there, watching in shock as she yanked the white fabrics from her body next. Underneath them, her limbs were rolled in what looked like coarse bandages, from chest to knee. Maybe because they were pulled tight, she seemed very thin.

"The other people... aren´t they your parents?" He finally seemed to have found his voice back. "What would they think if...?"

"They know. Of course they know. You are a Númenórean", she sang, more than said, in a crooning voice. He swallowed.

_This was madness._ _He had a wife in Armenelos... and a son... a son who was probably, surely! older than this girl was. She was a barbarian, too... and his friend was lying sick in the other room, how could he even be thinking of this?_

The bandage that covered her chest burst open, and two small but round breasts came into view. Amandil looked away at once, though not before he could feel an uncomfortable heat in his groin.

"Stop that!" he shouted. "I only need clean bandages. Get dressed."

She did not speak for a while. When she did so, her tone was even, as if she didn´t feel defeated by his rejection. Amandil did not know whether to feel relieved by this.

"Back when I brought you food and drink, I smelled something", she said. Not sure if she had covered her breasts, but also unwilling to give his back to such a woman, he turned towards her again, determined to keep his glance religiously fixed to the floor. The sight gave him a jolt, but he forced himself to pay no mind.

"What kind of smell?"

"A sweet fragrance. Like..." She paused for a while. "Like the heart of the desert in bloom."

Her voice wasn´t singsong or lusty anymore; it was full of an emotion that Amandil couldn´t quite lay a finger on.

"I used a fresh-smelling leaf for my friend´s bandages", he explained. "Do you know it?"

For a moment, he couldn´t prevent himself from looking up, at her face. Her eyes had narrowed as if in pain, and slowly she started to tie her breasts again.

"Is your friend a king?" she asked.

"What?" Shocked, he wondered how could she have made that guess. The purple had stayed in the cave of the Orcs, and the silver steel armour was dirty. Nobody could have imagined that a prince of Númenor would be wandering the wild lands of Middle-Earth with just one companion, and need the hospitality of a barbarian. _Nobody..._ "No. Why that question?"

"The leaf can be used by the Sea King alone. The King owns it", she replied, in a tone that was laced with a now unmistakeable bitterness. Amandil did not understand, though the words tugged at something in the back of his mind. He sat down in front of her.

"Do you know it? The leaf?"

She nodded somberly.

"There is a place, far away, in the middle of the desert. When El made the sky go up and the earth go down, He made a garden there, and it was a place of great wonder, with all the plants and animals useful for Men."

"Do you mean Eru?" Amandil ventured, surprised. In Númenor, he had heard that the religion of the barbarians was nothing at all like theirs; that they worshipped animals and gruesome statues.

Irritation flashed in the girl´s eyes.

"I mean El!" She paused for a moment, then continued with the same, somber voice as before. "The First Men lived in the garden, but they lost it. They rebelled, and El exiled them." _Like the Elves in his mother´s tales._ Amandil´s curiosity was turning into fascination. "For many long years our people lived miserably and died early, because the land was barren and we didn´t have anything of what was needed. No plants, no animals, no medicines... no wool to weave clothes for us and walls for our houses."

It was her use of Adûnaic what made the girl talk of weaving walls; a Númenórean wouldn´t know how to put those strange dwellings into words.

"One day, Haradu left his village, and his hearth, and his mother, and entered the Great Desert. It was a terrible place, where there was no water or trees and the sun burned like a fire, but he entered it alone and without fear. Forty years he wandered, until everybody thought he had died. But one day, he came back, and nobody recognised him because his skin had turned as dark as smoked wood. He had found the garden at the heart of the desert, and brought back a seed for each plant, a male and a female of each animal. The most precious of all the seeds was this, the Leaf of Haradu." For a while, as she told the story, her voice had become lighter, and full of a bubbling pride that Amandil found hard to reconcile with this poor landscape and humble abode, and with a girl who would give herself to strangers. Now, however, it was darkened again. "Since then, we honoured the hero by burning it in his altar. The smoke reached his spirit, and he smiled upon us, but the Sea Lords..." Her forehead creased in a scowl. "They claimed it for themselves. They stole it. They burned our fields and smoked our seeds and said it belonged to the Sea King alone. Liars!"

Her gaze was so intense that Amandil withdrew an inch. _Usurpers and thieves._ He felt defensive, as if his mind needed to find a way of lashing back at an accusation that was directed also towards him. Grabbing at this and that, he suddenly put the pieces together, and the truth stood in front of him, as naked as she had been minutes before. His eyes grew wide.

"Thirty five years ago. The attacks on the outposts and the caravans. It... it was your people, wasn´t it? Because of the leaf?"

She looked down; a strange light was in her eyes.

"They ambushed them in the mountains, and cut off their heads. Each was sent to one of the tribes, except the head of the leader. That one they sent to the Númenóreans," she mumbled. Amandil looked at her, so small, so incongrously young. He could find no words.

Slowly, she turned away from him, and started tinkering with the clay pots as if looking for something. He gazed at her, mesmerized. The white cloth had remained on the floor, forgotten, and her hair moved together with her shoulders in brief, undulating jerks.

And then he heard it. A clash that vibrated too loudly to be the chime of clay against clay in her practiced hands. A groan, coming from the neighbouring room.

"What was that?" he asked, tensing in alert. A pot fell to the floor, and broke in two. She turned back, and he barely had the time to see the anguished pallor in her face before she was on him, kissing his forehead, his mouth, his neck.

"It´s... nothing." she said between kisses. "Shh." Her mouth left a trail of fire in his body.

"No." He shook his head, grabbing her hand to pull her away. It wasn´t right, his every limb was screaming at him. And not because of Amalket, or because of his son, or because of Pharazôn, but because she was his enemy. As he felt her lips claiming his, he knew, and his hand darted towards her wrist before she could stab him with the knife.

She wrenched herself free with a snarl.

"You Sea-devil!" she cursed, raising it to strike again. Amandil sought around him frantically, but he was weaponless. The idea that a young girl could kill him where a horde of Orcs had failed was as ironic as it was terrible.

He rolled over to avoid the second strike, which cut a large, tearing gash into the cloth hanging behind him. Before he rolled back, however, she had already retrieved it, quick as a panther. She gave a battle yell, and without thinking, his knee jerked up to prevent her from landing in top of him. It connected against something hard, and he heard a cry.

He looked up. She was kneeling on the floor, struggling to stand up in spite of the pain. The knife was still on her hand, but now the broken clay was within his reach. Instinct told him what he had to do, like it had done back on the cave: grab it, smash it in her face before she could recover.

This time, however, his body didn´t obey. Helpless, he stared at the tears of rage that trickled down her cheeks as she nursed her stomach, staggering back to her feet. He remembered the pride in her voice as she told him the tale. _She was so young...._

"Die!" she hissed. Still in a daze, he watched her loom over him, an Orc in the body of a girl. Something inside him rebelled. _It wasn´t supposed to be like this._

The blade froze in the air, before it slipped from her fingers. Her eyes widened, and for a small fraction of a second, Amandil thought that she, like him, had remembered that they were both children of Eru.

Then, he saw the blood gushing from her chest, and staining the bandages that tied her body as she fell, dead, to the floor.

"Hurry up. They´ll be here in no time," Pharazôn urged, kicking her body away and helping him to his feet.

 

* * * * *

 

Amandil couldn´t remember ever having lost control of himself in that way. He was only vaguely aware of being dragged out of the place, through red cloth and darkness and the dead body of the man who had been sitting on the doorstep ages ago. The afternoon sun hurt his eyes.

"He tried to kill me in my sleep. But not the hag. She fled. She has probably gone to call the others, and they will be here in no time. What were you thinking, getting us into...?"

"Why did you kill her?" he asked, interrupting Pharazôn´s tirade. He could not think of anything else; all had become a blur and fled before the look in those dark eyes as her body crumbled. They had become holes, threatening to engulf his mind.

"Why did I...? Are you _mad_? She was going to stab you!"

"She..." His voice trailed away. _Worse than Orcs, worse than Orcs,_ someone laughed in his face. Despite the heat, he was shivering.

"Here. Put this back on." Pharazôn threw his mail at him. Amandil tried to catch it, but it slipped from his fingers, _like that knife..._ "What is wrong with you?"

Blinking away tears from the radiance of the sun, he knelt to pick it up. It felt cold in his hand, and suddenly, he remembered something.

"You were wounded. I had to carry you all the way here", he said, staring at the prince in newfound shock. Pharazôn shrugged.

"It wasn´t serious. I am fine now."

Amandil had seen the gaping wounds, in the leg and in the side, but now the prince was barely limping. Anyway, he thought, it didn´t matter. In this world, in the mainland of the Great Sea, everything was wrong.

"Are you... sure they will be coming after us?" he ventured, as he put his gear on. The landscape was as silent and desolate as ever.

"Certain."

"Then we won´t get far." There was a strange detachment in his voice as he said it. "We don´t have horses. We will be hunted like deer."

"You´re right." Pharazôn´s forehead creased into a frown as he stared at the horizon, then turned thoughtfully towards the frail structure the barbarians had called a house. _Weaving walls._ "Wait. I have a plan."

He made Amandil follow him behind the place, where two large trees provided support for the building with their trunks. A second, even smaller structure had been erected there, little else than two sticks with a goat skin propped between them. There were jars of water there, kept like a precious treasure, herbs and sacks of food, and three goats that bleated mournfully inside the fold. Behind them, a small vegetable patch stretched for about twenty paces, but the plants looked dead.

"We will hide here," Pharazôn declared. "When they come, we wait for them to dismount, steal their horses and leave."

In other times, Amandil would have argued that the plan was too risky. Now, he merely shook his head.

"There could be a hundred of them."

"They live scattered, miles away from each other. They will prefer speed to numbers," Pharazôn answered confidently.

Maybe confidence was the key to being always right. Or maybe he was protected by all the gods and amulets of the people of Númenor, but hours later, after Amandil had slept, eaten as much food and drank as much water as he was able, they heard hooves coming from the distance and counted only five horse.

"We can deal with that", the prince said, throwing the remains of the water jar over his head and grabbing his sword.

Amandil´s mind was clearer now, as the struggle for survival had lifted the haze from his thoughts. Or at least where he allowed it to, which was the part that dealt with their immediate concerns. Other things remained veiled, and he was afraid of pulling the veil away and facing them. Like the fire of his childhood, and the water of his dreams, he had to banish them where they could not drag him down. _He simply had to._

"I hope they _do_ dismount," he observed. As the riders came nearer, jabbering in a language that neither of them could understand, he saw that the escaped woman was riding one of the horses, clutching at the reins clumsily. After they stopped, they helped her down, and she bolted towards the door. Amandil swallowed, but one of the men grabbed her by her clothes and forced her to stop. An argument broke between them.

"They are wary of us. As they should be", Pharazôn whispered. A man was chosen to stand guard over the mounts, while the rest unsheathed swords and knives and prepared to enter the house. The woman was placed behind.

"At the count of three", Pharazôn announced, and began mouthing the numbers. Amandil felt a jolt of trepidation as they tiptoed carefully until they were several steps away from the man´s back. The others had entered the shelter; it was a matter of seconds before they found the bodies.

"Now!" the prince hissed, leading the charge. The desert warrior hadn´t expected this sudden attack, and it was all he could do to interpose his sword before he was skewered. Steel clashed against steel with a resounding clatter, but the parry was clumsy and the angle wrong. His arm trembled, too weak to resist the onslaught as Pharazôn pushed him against his horse and decapitated him. Then, with an equally fast move, he rammed the blade inside the agitated beast´s neck. Amandil winced as it neighed in the throes of agony, but there was no time for this. He jumped on one of the horses as Pharazôn jumped on another, and the men ran out of the house cursing at them and the woman´s keening wails rose above them all.

"Kill the horses!" Pharazôn shouted. Amandil´s sword was unsheathed as he rode past the mounts that reared on their hind legs and kicking, but the wails had pierced his determination. His hand shook, remembering the dead girl inside. A knife whistled past his ear.

"You idiot!" Pharazôn yelled at him, as both rode down the slope towards the road. Uttering sharp cries that sounded like curses, the barbarians mounted the two remaining horses and bolted after them. "Now we have them at our heels!"

Amandil did not argue, even though the plan had been foolish and desperate from the beginning. Awakening from his turmoil, and for the first time since he had embarked on this nightmarish adventure, he felt the burning heat of shame.

_He had caused all this himself._ First, by wanting Pharazôn to come with them, by feeling guiltily relieved at his presence. Then, he had led him into a trap, became paralyzed by his own emotions when those people tried to kill them. And now...

He barely had the time to duck before a second knife flew over his head. That girl had been an enemy. That man, that woman, had both been enemies, like those warriors who were hunting them. They hated them, they were in league with the Orcs.  _Usurpers, tyrants and thieves._ They wanted to kill them, him and Pharazôn too, and that was all that should matter now.

"Go on!" he shouted, tugging sharply at the reins. "I will deal with them!"

"What?" Pharazôn turned back. "What are you doing? Run!"

"No!"

To his dismay, Pharazôn stopped in his tracks. The Haradrim were approaching, their yells becoming louder and clearer in the late afternoon.

"Maybe it´s a good idea. Better fight them head on than offer our backs to their knives."

Amandil knew that he wasn´t a prince, or a commander, or a warrior even. But all the authority he could muster, all the determination he had, he put it in his voice as he gazed at his friend now.

"It´s my fault that they are behind us. It´s me who has to stop them. _Leave_."

He didn´t have the time to check if his words had been heeded or not. The barbarians were on him, and he wielded his sword threateningly. They answered by throwing another knife, deadly and aimed for his throat. He parried it with his blade.

"Sea dog flees no more", one of them spat. The other laughed, a laugh that exposed a row of white teeth that shone against his dark face. But he was not amused. "You fight other than women and old men?"

"We do", Amandil said, fumbling to get his dagger out. _It had worked with the Orcs, before._

The warriors unsheathed their swords as well, which they carried upon their backs. They were looking at him as if calculating their next move, and for a brief flicker of a second, Amandil detected a wary kind of fear in their eyes. He was only one, but he was bigger than them, and his steel was better. And now he wasn´t fleeing anymore.

Slowly, he held the dagger on his left hand, and the sword on his right. His legs pressed against the horse´s flanks, and he shouted a battle yell. The Haradrim warriors charged.

He turned to the left, ramming against the horse of the warrior who had taken that flank. The man had not expected that manouevre, and he had to lower his blade to hold on to his mount. Amandil slashed at him, watching him fall to the ground. Behind him, he heard another battle yell, and tried to turn back, but found that he couldn´t. The reins had become entangled with the dead man´s saddle.

His grip on his weapon tightened, until the knuckles became white. The plan had almost worked.

"Die, sea dog!" the barbarian yelled. He was right behind him now.

He dropped the sword to the ground, put the dagger between his teeth, and jumped.

 


	42. Land of Shadows

 

 

"Itashtart."

The priest raised his head a few inches, and peered uneasily at his surroundings. The mosaic-laden walls of the Palace seemed to loom over him, and his look trailed from one shape to another without taking any of them in. In the middle of this brilliant blur of colours, standing in sharp contrast, two dark eyes were coldly set on him. Their intensity crushed him like an almost physical weight, and he lowered his forehead again.

The obsidian floor felt hard and cold against his knees.

"There was an... agreement. Between me and Abdashtart, may he live eternally in the light beyond the Darkness, and the Commander of the garrison at Umbar", he explained, willing his voice to sound confident though his throat was dry. "The son of the traitors would accompany Abdashtart in a journey to a trading outpost, under the pretence of consecrating the ground for a temple. The plan was to kill him on the way, my lord king, and blame it on the Orcs that infest the region. "Regaining some of his courage, he looked up again. "We would have rid you of a sworn enemy, and your kingdom of a threat, if we had succeeded."

Ar-Gimilzôr frowned. The crease in his brow was one of many, for which no dye or artifice had yet been found. Under his royal purple, the King had been growing old for years, many whispered that ahead of his time, and yet the glare with which he pierced the High Priest of the Forbidden Bay would have cowed much younger and stronger men.

"So you would take upon yourself to rid me of my enemies?" he asked in a soft voice. "But why in secret?"

Itashtart squared his shoulders, which had once suffered the weight of armour.

"To prevent the spread of rumours."

"To prevent censure, you mean!" the King hissed. "That man was protected by the gods, and consecrated to them. How could you presume to gainsay their will!"

"We thought..."

"Enough!" Itashtart lowered his head, flinching at the anger in that voice. "The Goddess´s displeasure is upon you! She foiled your plans and destroyed your allies, while Hannishtart himself was allowed to live. And your manouevres almost cost us the prince Pharazôn´s life!"

"That..." The priest´s face reddened. "That was an accident! He insisted on going with the others, there was nothing they could do to convince him!"

"And are you so blind that you still cannot see the hand of the Goddess in this?" a softer voice spoke from behind the throne. Gimilzôr nodded, leaning back in silence as the Princess of the South Melkyelid walked forth, red robes swishing behind her measured steps. Two silver-plaited braids slid down her front as she stood before the man and slowly bent towards him. "Can´t you see that she used the prince to save Hannishtart, and Hannishtart to save the prince?"

The voice was almost a whisper, and yet Itashtart seemed more unsettled than when the King had yelled at him. He gazed ahead, trying to focus on the throne, but her reproachful eyes were mere inches away from his now. He could feel her breath tickling his skin.

"I bear you no ill will for putting my son in danger. I know that his destiny is well out of your reach", she whispered against his cheek. Suddenly, she pulled back, and her words became loud and clear. "But how can a High Priest ignore the will of the gods?"

Ar-Gimilzôr picked up the Sceptre that lay across his lap, and turned it on his hand with a pondering look.

"My lord king..."

"The Princess is right. You should resign."

"What?" The golden features smiled blandly, like those of a statue. "But... my lord king..."

"Silence!" Gimilzor shouted; this time his voice reverberated against the high walls, breaking into a hundred echoes. "Your conspirations have brought us enough trouble! You should be sent to the mainland yourself, to fight the Orcs until you died! Now leave this place and do not have us look upon your face again!"

Itashtart did not leave at once. Melkyelid stared in silence as he bowed and retreated with slow, almost drunken movements.

"He was already High Priest in the days of the late king. Is this what they mean with the uncertainty of fate? Today here, tomorrow there", she wondered. Shaking her head with a sigh, she walked back towards the vicinity of the throne. "Only the gods are powerful."

"And they blind those that they want to destroy", Ar-Gimilzôr retorted harshly. At the far end of the hall, a cluster of courtiers whispered as the priest walked past them. "Come closer."

Melkyelid tore her eyes away from the scene and leaned towards the king, her head curved in a graceful bow. For a while, he did not say anything, gazing at the mosaics in the wall as if he expected to find a living person hiding among the painted figures of the sailors who set foot on the island for the first time.

Finally, his eyes met hers. Uncertainty clouded them, of the kind that only she was allowed to see.

"Do you think this was a warning?" he asked. Melkyelid frowned.

"This was the second time that someone tried to kill him. The first time, there were wolf howls and a stubborn priest. This time, people died." She nodded thoughtfully. " _Leave him alone. He is under our protection._ That is, indeed, what they seem to be saying. And that both gods would speak with the same voice is unheard-of. This is a matter of great import, for us and for Númenor."

"She used the prince to save Hannishtart, and Hannishtart to save the prince", Gimilzôr repeated, laying the Sceptre upon his lap again. Rubies gleamed under the dim lamplight. "That is what you said to Itashtart."

"And also what I said long ago." The last doubt fled her countenance, and she turned towards him resolutely. Her eyes shone with purpose. "Without the son of Númendil, there will be no dawn for Númenor, and the altars of the gods will forever remain cold. Can´t you see? They are with you. They want to fight for their island!"

"You seem very sure that he will turn against his lineage, even under a king who will favour them. "Gimilzôr snapped, untouched by her enthusiasm. "There is no reason why he should bear us any good will."

"He saved my son. He dragged him all the way through the desert and stood against their pursuers", she argued. "What does this tell you, my lord king?"

"That you are a mother", he retorted dryly. She smiled, unabashed.

"So I am. And if there is anyone in this world I would trust with the life of my son, it would be Amandil. Because he stood by him when nobody else would, and will do so again." The smile turned into a grin, gleeful and impish, as she leaned close to his ear and her voice became a whisper. "Because, one day, he will make Pharazôn King."

 

* * * * *

 

Amandil rubbed his face with his hand. Drops of sweat trickled down his forehead, making the hair stick to the back of his neck even though it was well past midnight. There hadn´t been the slightest breeze in days, and the hot air remained floating around them instead of being blown away. The feeling was one of oppresion, of being buried in a hole from which he could not get out.

Close by, in the large open space before the Commander´s house, the soldiers were holding a feast. Drink flowed freely, and roast meat served with a sweet-smelling dried fruit. There was dance and song, of a sort that would have made the Armenelos revelers he had once frequented blush in shame. Men and women mingled freely for both, joining their voices and their bodies in a bizarre and outlandish mixture. Above them, the stars shone in a clear sky, the stars of Númenor that looked uncongruously upon a strange world.

A loud laugh pierced briefly through the music and the sounds of merrymaking. He gazed down and saw a woman run past him, the folds of her dress gathered up so it would not hinder her long strides. As she laughed, the white of her teeth constrasted sharply with her dark skin. Remembrances of the girl with the knife and the black eyes flooded his mind, that girl they had killed in barbarian land. He grasped the leaves against his hand, but the fragrance was gone.

A man appeared in the shadows, running behind the woman. He caught her some twenty steps away from where Amandil was sitting, and dragged her under the wooden porch. The screams of pleasure, barely smothered by the rough structure, made him so sick, that for a moment he wanted to vomit.

"It´s always better when you do it yourself", a familiar voice remarked behind him. He did not acknowledge the new arrival, until he saw a cup of wine dangling before his face. It was pure wine, undiluted and unspiced, and his nose itched when it caught the smell.

He took it.

"This party is for you, too. You defeated Orcs and barbarians who outnumbered you, earned the Commander´s approval and got rid of that fool Abdashtart." Pharazôn sat next to him, as oblivious to the noises as if courtiers rolled under tables at the Palace everyday. "You should be happy, so why the hell don´t you stop moping?"

It was true that Amandil´s life seemed to have taken a better turn since Abdashtart perished in the Orc ambush beyond the mountains. Everybody had praised him for his skill and courage in the wilderness, and for saving the Prince´s life. Even the Commander, who had sent him away without a second glance, had suddenly developed a great interest in him. He had named him captain and accepted him into his council, which was unprecedented. Amandil had argued that he was a priest and depended on the Cave of the Forbidden Bay, but the man had merely shrugged and said that the Forbidden Bay was very far away, and that Amandil was too good a soldier to dance attendance on people who had never set foot outside Númenor. And so it was that his life had taken a new turn yet again, in this place where rules and priests and kings seemed to matter much less -in this vast continent beyond the Sea where he felt trapped.

"I am glad that we survived", he answered carefully, taking a sip of the wine. "Thinking back, I suppose that we were quite lucky."

"We did some stupid things, didn´t we? Especially you." Pharazôn laughed; he had drunk his share of that dreadful wine. "Oh, it was very brave, charging alone against those riders though you had no idea how to fight on a horse. And that woman! _Really._ What were you thinking?"

Amandil´s stomach sunk again, and for a while he was unable to speak. _He wanted to forget about her, forget that she ever existed._ And yet that, too, was impossible. Not because he couldn´t compel his mind to dismiss her words as lying gibberish, to remember the knife instead of the proud look in her naked eyes, or to be ashamed of his own cowardice only, and not of being made to feel like a murderer, a thief and an usurper. He could not forget because now, he knew that he would have to go back and see her again, and again, hundreds of girls with knives and wailing women and weather-beaten warriors sneering in contempt. And he would fight them over and over, and kill them over and over, unless they killed him first, and the Wave would become a wave of blood and corpses.

He drank the rest of the wine. His throat burned.

"She told me a story. Before..."

"...she pulled a knife on you?" his friend finished for him. Amandil ignored this.

"They have the same High God as we do. Eru. Did you know that?"

For a moment, Pharazôn stared at him. Then, he laughed out loud.

"Really? Then he must not like them very much, don´t you think?"

"They think that we stole something from them. That made them angry."

"Well, that´s rich! They were dressed in animal rags before we came, and ate tree barks. What could we have stolen from them? Lice?"

"This." His free hand, which had been balled into a fist, opened to reveal the crushed, dry leaf. "The leaf of the visions. You had it on you when we set out, didn´t you?"

It hadn´t been difficult to guess the procedence of the plant after he had the leisure to think again. If it belonged to the King, and nobody else could use it, it couldn´t have been the soldiers. The Orcs had taken Pharazôn´s armour away when they were on the cave, and this is how it had dropped to the floor, where it stayed unnoticed until he picked it up.

For the briefest of moments, Pharazôn looked taken aback. Then he shrugged defensively.

"This came from the King´s own fields. And I did not steal it. I am his grandson, which gives me the right to use it."

"I healed your wounds with it. It is truly a miraculous plant", Amandil observed, staring at it with a thoughtful frown. "No wonder they held it in such reverence..."

Pharazôn´s eyes widened in surprise at the first statement, and he didn´t even hear the second. He picked up the leaf between two fingers.

"Healed my wounds? That´s not possible! This plant wouldn´t heal a cold, it only brings the holy visions. And it came from Númenor in the first place. Maybe those louts are confusing it with some other plant that looks similar. I would expect that of them!"

"But your wounds healed!" Amandil insisted.

"That´s because I am strong!" Pharazôn retorted proudly. "I am of the blood of kings."

_I am of the blood of kings, too, and I still have every cut and every scratch,_ Amandil thought, unconvinced. But something else had occurred to him.

"Why did you take it, then?

"Those people! Are they going to keep it up all night?" The cup Amandil had emptied drew a practiced arch in the air and shattered exactly above the place where the man and the woman were hiding. The noise stopped for a moment, then it was resumed. Pharazôn muttered something about drunken soldiers.

All this gave Amandil the definite impression that his friend was trying to avoid the question. He was about to use this as a cue to announce his departure, as his head was starting to ache, but right then, Pharazôn spoke again.

"I wanted to see if it worked."

"What?"

"The plant, of course!" He looked away, and his voice became lower. "The visions run in my family. The King is good at them, and so is my uncle, the Prince. And then, my cousin... she is very good. She sees things day and night." A second pause followed this, until he continued in an even lower voice. "I have never seen anything. My uncle and his supporters would argue that this is because we are not the main branch, that I am unfit and all those things they usually say. No matter that I am the only male descendant in my generation!"

"You _want_ to have visions?" The idea sounded as ludicrous now as it had the first time that he heard it from the lips of a soldier, during the march from Umbar. He remembered the visions and dreams that had shaken him before he arrived there, and how they had become bloodier and more terrible after they returned from the trading post. "That´s... that´s absurd. You don´t... "His tongue seemed to have knotted, maybe from the effects of the wine. "You don´t know what you are saying, visions are... they are not a good thing."

"See? Even you have them, and you are from a junior branch!" Pharazôn insisted. "The very fact that I don´t have them, that my father doesn´t have them, is taken as proof that I am not meant to rule."

"The visions do not help you to rule. They do not show you what to do, they are confusing and insane. If you saw things day and night, _that_ alone would make you unable to rule", Amandil replied. For once, his friend seemed too stunned to make a reply.

He sighed. Why were they talking about this?

_Because that is what worries Pharazôn,_ a voice answered inside his mind,  _and maybe he feels as trapped inside his problems as you are inside yours._ But he had no strength left to care for others´s problems now. He didn´t even have the strength to deal with his own.

Suddenly, he longed to be alone again.

"In any case, you were right before. I did stupid things back then, and I am sorry. "He stood up, and the planks creaked noisily under his feet. "I had second thoughts."

The prince snapped back from his own musings, and gave him a close look.

"Well. _That_ alone would make anyone unable to fight", he said, echoing his friend´s own pronouncement. Amandil started walking away, not towards the feast but towards the back of the house, where it was dark and the noises came as if from very far away.

"Stop fooling around! Who cares about a plant or the religion or the claims of a barbarian? You have a wife and a son in Númenor!" Pharazôn shouted after him. Amandil heard movement of a new kind under the porch, as if the man and the woman had finally stopped their lovemaking and had started listening to them. "If you don´t kill them, they will kill you. That is the only truth!"

Or the only truth that mattered. Which should amount to the same thing, and yet some part of him refused stubbornly to admit it.

_Maybe he had a death wish._ But if he did, he wouldn´t want to escape from this place with every fibre of his being. He would stay, and stop caring whether it was licit to ignore the Cave, or drink undiluted wine, or mate in public, or kill barbarian girls as if they were Orcs. He would be swallowed by the shadows.

"If you don´t like it here, surely you don´t want to die here?" his friend insisted. This had hit so close to his own thoughts, that Amandil paused in surprise.

"No", he mumbled. Pharazôn stood up as well, and walked until he came at barely one place away from him.

"I will stop trying to have visions. You opened my eyes. It´s foolish to look for complications where there aren´t any", he declared. "I only wish you would do the same."

And walking past him, he headed back to the drunken throng, and the light.

 

 


	43. The Jewel of Númenor

_(Nine Years Later.)_

 

**The Jewel of Númenor**

 

 

The courtyard, the corridors were full of eyes. They stared at her with that look that ran over her skin like a distantly unpleasant caress, without the will or the ability of piercing it to get inside. She withstood them with a bland expression, perceiving the morbid curiosity, the unspoken questions, and also the admiration for her beauty like a cacophony of voices.

It was the first time she was seen in public, standing side by side with her parents and the royal family. Her mother, whose love was like a warm net whose grip on her limbs grew tighter the more she struggled against it, had opposed the idea since the beginning. The experience would disturb her too much, it was better if she stayed in the cool shade of her gardens instead of being subjected to the pitiless light and thousands of different noises and different colours swarming around her frail body.

But Zimraphel was not frail: she had decided that she wanted this more than anything, and so she got it. Her father had been delighted at her sudden cooperation, and gave her magnificent robes and jewels to wear. Zimraphel, in exchange, had put them on her body, and her mouth had smiled, and her head had bowed. The King had welcomed her with words of compliment that did not come from his mouth, but from him, and invited her to a place of honour in the procession. Zimraphel accepted even though she did not like him, because he smelled like an embalmed corpse under his purple and gold. _A King should not die._

They made their way through courtyards, galleries and stairs, the eyes still chasing her wherever she went. At last they reached the balcony, and an onslaught of blinding light and roaring noise spilled on her face like red-hot melted iron. She covered her face, wishing for a moment that she could be back in her gardens. But she was no coward, and she would not prove her mother right.

"What is the matter?" his father whispered next to her. It was an urgent whisper, an expression of fear that the rest of the Court could see her like this. What the Court thought was very important for him, though they were but men and women who couldn´t even open a thought to see what was inside. This paradox of lofty strength and abject weakness disgusted her, as much as the grandness of royalty when it felt tracked and harassed by the shadow of death.

Slowly, she pried her hands away, and blinked. The radiance broke into colourful blurs, and the blurs broke into a million smaller pieces. To her astonishment, she realized that many of those pieces were people, dressed in vivid fabrics and pressed against each other. There were so many that it was impossible to determine where each of them finished and the next began. Confusion threatened to undo her again, as the throng of bodies, of voices, of wishes and destinies grew and multiplied around her, and she would have been lost if it hadn´t been for her father´s grip in her hand.

"Make them leave", she pleaded like a terrified child. He shook his head.

"Maybe she should wait inside..." someone whispered.

" _No!_ " she hissed, shaking away the hands that grabbed at her shoulders. He was there, somewhere, and she could not give up until she had seen him. The others did not matter. _She had to silence them._

"They are insects", she whispered, holding her hand before her face. "They are smaller than my finger."

"That they are", her mother cooed in a coaxing way, _as if she was stupid and did not know the laws of perspective._ "You do not have to worry about them, Zimraphel."

"I do not." Her voice became strained, as she kept trying to extricate herself from the turmoil. " I am higher than the Meneltarma, and taller than the tallest wave." Like a litany, she repeated those words several times. "Higher than the Meneltarma and taller than the tallest wave. Higher than the Meneltarma, and taller than the tallest wave."

And then it was over. The buzz became distant under her feet, and was swallowed by the waters.

Zimraphel looked down, and her mouth curved into a smile.

 

* * * * *

 

The procession was unlike anything she had seen with her eyes before that day. It ressembled the greatness of the visions that she saw with the other eyes, the ones that had no eyelids, but while those were dominated by abrupt movement and confusion, this was orderly and posed no danger. Enraptured, she leaned over the porphyry railing as line after line of soldiers with wreaths upon their brows marched below her, and dancers in robes of gauze, and men and beasts that carried all sorts of fascinating things, like skins of animals never seen before, casks of gold, gems and fragrant balms and weapons fashioned in strange and capricious shapes. There were living animals, too, large green birds, lions and tigers that gnawed at the bars of their cages and made people recoil in fear. In the place of honour, a large _múmak,_ dressed in finery like a king, walked among eight men who yanked at the ropes that bound it in a painful effort to keep it on track. Zimraphel could see that it was a baby, and was briefly shaken by its fright and confusion. The polished and gilded skull of an adult followed, with its tusks intact, to show the animal´s full size. It had been laid on a large chariot, pulled by ten stout horses. People stared at it and exclaimed in wonder, imagining what kind of body could have owned such a head, and produced such monstruous children.

Behind the animals came the prisoners, small and dark men who stumbled forwards while staring stupidly at their surroundings. Zimraphel looked at them, and suddenly felt the warm, viscous trickle of blood in her palms and the stench of decay in her nostrils. Shadows flashed before her eyes, and she reeled back with a cry.

"Do not be scared, my dear granddaughter", the King said to her. "They are only barbarians."

She nodded, furious with herself for showing weakness once again. The prisoners, however, were like a black, gaping hole in the middle of the pleasing spectacle. She could not look at them. _They were dead._

"Maybe she should leave..." her mother´s threat returned, pawing at her arm. Just then, somebody shouted.

"There he is!"

Zimraphel wrenched herself free from her mother´s grip, and leaned over the railing again. And lo! it was him, riding his white horse. Gold gleamed upon his head, and purple billowed in his wake as he smiled at the crowd that pushed and pressed around him, basking in their adoration. The shadows fled before him, leaving nothing but warmth and a heady feeling of giddiness.

_He was back._ She wanted to laugh. Everything shone around her. 

"Let us go down and give our young hero the welcome he deserves", Ar-Gimilzôr said. Zimraphel sent a last, long look over the railing, and gathered the folds of her green and silver robe to follow him downstairs.

Beside her, her father smiled with his mouth. He did not welcome the light, for he preferred the shadows and the dusty scrolls written by ghosts with no blood on their veins. Those scrolls spoke of a world where the sun did not shine, and of dead, forgotten people to whom he had given his love. Zimraphel could not read them, or understand their spidery writing, but she knew.

They made their way towards the First Courtyard, followed by the thousand courtiers of the Palace by order of rank. Everybody wanted to be there, from the highest priest to the meanest cup bearer, and take a look at the hero who had achieved a crushing victory over the Southern barbarians and dined on their capital. As he came in with his generals, everybody shouted and cheered, raising such noise as had never echoed in those quiet gardens before.

Since the time of Ar-Adunakhôr, this had been the first time in which a scion of the royal family had fought in Middle-Earth. Pharazôn, too, had been the youngest to take arms, and he had by far proved the most brilliant commander. Nine years ago, he had taken ship in Sor under no clear official capacity, regarded as little more than an unwelcome burden, and in that time he had become an undisputed warrior leader. His fearless tactics had brought great glory and riches to Númenor, and it was rumoured that the soldiers loved him and would follow him to their deaths.

Zimraphel could understand why. Since she was a girl, and she first laid eyes upon him in that garden, he had been able to take her fears away. And terrible fears they had been, of blood and heights and drowning, and a twin who held her hand in his frozen grip and tried to drag her away to the darkness because he felt so alone. All this had been real to her, but not to him. _They are just visions_ , he said, and whenever she was with him, they were.

"...trust the sacrifices at the Temple have proved favourable", the King was saying at the moment. Pharazôn had dismounted and bowed before him. At Ar-Gimilzôr´s other side, his parents were gazing at him in undissimulated pride, and the Princess of the South smiled like a queen.

"They have. The Lord of Armenelos is very pleased", Pharazôn replied, raising his face. For the first time, Zimraphel´s glance could meet his, and she saw many things flashing in the glint of his eye. There was pride _,_ greater pride and confidence than ever before. _For the gods protect me, and they will never let me down._ And then, under that shining surface a darker, deeper thought full of defiance. _What was right beyond the seas, why shouldn´t it be right here?_

Zimraphel lowered her eyes with a thrill.

 

* * * * *

 

She was not allowed to watch the rest of the celebrations, which became bloodier in the afternoon as the prisoners were killed. Once more, she was sequestered in her quarters by cooing old women, but what would have angered and humiliated her before now felt too weak to even touch her. She sat quietly by the fountain, reading empty words and planning her escape. It would be easier than ever, as everybody in the Palace would be drunk or celebrating.

That night, as she lay on her bed pretending to be asleep and the women had already left the room, a sharp noise roused her. She stood on her feet at once, searching for the window with trembling hands. Pressing her eyes against the lattice, she peered outside.

The gardens were shrouded in the darkness of the new moon. Next to the place where the fountain gurgled peacefully, she heard someone move. Her breath caught in her throat.

As quickly as she could, she fumbled for a cloak and crossed her nurse´s room, tiptoeing over her sleeping body. Her eyes soon grew used to the faint glow of the stars, and the lines it drew in the dark around her. Back when she was a child, she had wandered here and there, touching all those lines to make sure that nothing lurked underneath, though once that she was back in bed they would always spring up on her again. Sometimes they had hidden in that fountain, deep, deep down, and her hand had grazed their drowned bodies before she was pulled up, wet and trembling.

But he did not hide.

"I... I missed you." she said, blabbering like a girl in her excitement. It was the first time in so many years that he would look for her. "You were so far... I couldn´t see you. I couldn´t see you at all."

His eyes gleamed in the night as he smiled.

"You were not at the evening feast."

"They would not let me see the blood." _Fools._ She had seen more blood than any of them, blood and water, which was clearer and deeper and more terrible. "But I only wanted to see you."

Her quiet voice was almost drowned by the sound of the running fountain. He drew even closer, as if to hear her better. His chest came to her nose, for she was shorter than other women and he had grown tall. Lowering his chin, he gazed into her eyes.

"Your jewel helped me. It saved my life in Middle-earth."

"So it did!" She beamed. "Back then, I knew that one day you would be in danger, and that it would help you."

He nodded to this, suddenly thoughtful.

"Do your... visions tell you what is going to happen? Everything?"

Her smile fell.

"No." she mumbled, evasively. She did not like those questions.

"But can you have them at will?" he insisted. Zimraphel shook her head in determined silence.

"I am sorry", he said, in a placating tone. "I saw the King´s leaf growing in Umbar, and had to defend it against people who wanted to have visions. They think that you can see the future just by burning it. I wondered what you would say about that."

"I am not like them", she said, in a proud voice. "I see things because they are my birthright."

He tensed. _And not mine,_ he thought, but then the wall that was growing between them crumbled to smoke, and he smiled at her.

"Will you help me, then? Tell me to step to the left before a thunderbolt falls on my head?" He laid his arm over her shoulder, and her heart jumped in her chest. "A commander can´t go around having visions in the middle of a battlefield, but he still needs them. Back when I lived in the Palace they made me uneasy, but in the world outside, many unexpected things happen. Together, we would be invincible, wouldn´t we? My mother could be right, and this would be what the gods intended from the beginning. That´s why they made us fall in love with each other, not because they hated us... but because we are fated to be together."

Zimraphel had barely been listening, as she was too busy withstanding the onslaught of different emotions triggered by his touch, and his vibrant body against hers. But suddenly, a drop of hesitation had penetrated the flow of his brash talk, betraying him. She froze, watching wide-eyed as the ripples filled the air, then vanished.

Pharazôn could not pretend he had not noticed the effect of his last words on her. Muttering something, he retreated in the shadows to hide the red in his face.

"Pharazôn..." she whispered. _Please, do not leave again. Do not regret..._

Then, suddenly, he was back, kissing her. It was a long kiss that tasted of wine, and fire, and earth. Zimraphel responded hungrily, the longing of all those years rushing back to her.

_The walls had crumbled. All the walls in the world had crumbled._

That night, lying on the wet ground, she could see nothing but him.

 

* * * * *

 

"Try holding it like this."

The boy nodded, rearranging his fingers as instructed over the pommel of the wooden sword. His opponent, meanwhile, was taking advantage of the momentary distraction to let his own weapon hang at his side, his glance drawn irresistibly towards the shadows under the corner beam. Halideyid followed it, and for a moment the man who sat there seemed to shift under his hood. Frowning, he looked away.

He had come in the middle of the lesson, and took a seat among them without waiting to be invited. He had not even revealed his face, but seemed to be greatly interested by the way Halideyid taught the boys. Involuntary remembrances had stolen into his mind, of night lessons in a backyard long ago, disrupting his concentration and putting him on edge.

He berated himself for it. _If that man was his father, he would have known._ His father, too, would have come as soon as he arrived to Armenelos, instead of revelling drunkenly for three days and nights with the other soldiers before he remembered about them. After the first day since the Prince Pharazôn´s return, he and his mother had given up hope.

No, this was just some intruder who probably wanted to cause trouble in some way. He had been confronted with those before, people sent by the Guard for the most part. They had never forgiven him for leaving them and setting up his own school.

"We are done for today", he declared. Other days, the boys would have bolted off, pushing each other and throwing their wooden swords in a disordered pile, but today they seemed fascinated by the stranger. Forming groups that whispered furiously as they queued up to leave their weapons and take back their cloaks, they left in a slow trickle, contriving ways to pass as close to the stranger as possible and take a good look at him.

Halideyid felt an urge to push them out forcefully. He walked towards the pile of swords to rearrange them, and fingered one while he made sure that each and every one of the students were getting past the door in safety. Only after the last of them had jumped down the step, he turned towards the man.

"May I ask who are you, and what is your business here?" he asked. Though he was on the corner at the other side of the door, he could hear the stranger´s laugh ring clear.

"Some welcome that was! I am a soldier, not a thug."

_Most soldiers are but better trained thugs,_ Halideyid thought, but said nothing. Instead, he approached the man, fixing him with a searching glance.

"What am I expected to think, when you will not even show your face?" he asked. The man shrugged, ignoring the challenge; the hood stayed where it was.

"I just sailed from Umbar, and I know your father. Is that business enough for you?"

Halideyid froze. He was about to lower his guard, but in the last moment prudence won over his racing heart.

"You have come by mistake, then. My father is not in Umbar."

"Your father Hannishtart _is_ in Umbar. Or, to be more accurate, somewhere in Haradric territory." the man replied. "Some troops were still deployed when the Prince came back from the capital and was summoned to Armenelos, and he was with them."

Halideyid contemplated this in tense silence. He remembered his last, and only, conversation with his father, the reasons he had alleged for his secrecy, and what he had revealed about himself. Then, and only then, he let the worry, the unanswered question flood to the surface.

"Was that the last news you had of him?" _Somewhere in Haradric territory..._ "Are you sure he is alive?"

"I am sure he would not allow himself to be killed. "the man shrugged. "He may be back in Umbar by now. It was a shame that we could not wait for him, but the King wanted the feast to be in Midsummer, and Midsummer it had to be."

"So they would celebrate their victory before the war is over?" Halideyid asked, frustration taking hold of him. "Is leaving business unfinished the custom in Umbar?"

The man straightened up, and Halideyid thought he had made him angry. He looked at the stranger´s standing form, trying to gauge him. Though not nearly as tall as Halideyid, his shoulders were broader, and there was something intimidating about him. It might have been the way he acted, that brash disdain for normal rules that Halideyid had seen in soldiers before, and which more often than not ended in bloody incidents. But there was also something else.

"I am sorry", he apologized, without lowering his glance. "That has nothing to do with you."

The stranger turned away, and began pacing around the room.

"This is a nice school you have here. Prosperous, by the looks of it." He stopped in front of the swords, leaned forwards to pick one, and considered it for a moment before throwing it away. The pile collapsed with a loud clatter. "You have never fought anyone to the death, have you?"

"If I had, I would be dead or in prison, and I´m neither." Halideyid replied evenly. He would not allow himself to be distracted. "If you have any message, any letter from my father..."

"He has." The man did not even seem to have heard him, or registered his interruption. "And he has killed many. He does not like it, though. I think that he would come back and teach children with you if he could. On the other hand, there he is safe from other kinds of shit. Nobody cares for who he is, or whether he has a family hidden somewhere."

Halideyid frowned.

"He told you of his conversation with me?"

This time, the stranger laughed.

"Many times! I´ve lost count. He´s a really annoying drunk." The laughter died, and there was a short silence. "He has changed much in these years, and will change more yet. But his wish to see you and your mother again remains the same. Back when he was new in Umbar and his balls were on a knot about doing certain things, that was what allowed him to build a resolve."

Halideyid did not answer. He felt shaken by realization, so much that words would only have betrayed him, or proved meaningless.

"I have been watching you. In spite of your size, you are skilled. You would make a good soldier." the man continued. The hood had almost fallen back by now, and for a moment he could see brown eyes staring at him appraisingly. "Have you ever felt the wish to join him in the mainland?"

It would be a lie to say that he hadn´t thought of it, especially when students were scarce or the Guard scared them into leaving his class. But considering impossible things was but an idle pastime.

"I have a responsibility towards my mother. I cannot leave her alone."

"You sent your father´s providers away, but they could be back", the man argued, apparently aware of things nobody was supposed to know about. _Not even his father._ "Does this school even make enough money?"

"I have everything I need." Halideyid replied, his tone a little too cutting. "But it´s not of material goods I was thinking of. If I left, both my mother´s husband and son would be risking their lives in distant lands. I will not do that to her."

"Well, then." He shrugged in resignation. "He would have been furious anyway. He doesn´t think that Umbar is a place for his precious son."

Halideyid considered this, turning away to hide the emotions that may have showed through his face. He was not at ease with that Umbarian soldier, though his words were honest. _Or almost honest._

"If that is true, I would not do something he may disapprove of."

"Such a good boy." The stranger laughed again. "Are you waiting for him to choose a wife for you, too?"

Halideyid ignored the condescending tone, though ignoring the question was harder. Women were a subject he did not like to broach at all. Too many had laughed at him or called him a freak because of his size, more than enough to make him wary of approaching one.

"I am still young", he replied simply. That was all his father and his father´s friends needed to know.

"Well." The man pulled his cloak up on his shoulders, and looked at him. His face was perfectly visible now, dark brown curls tied on the back of his head, and handsome features touched by a glint of metal. "Thank you for this conversation. I will be able to give him plenty of information when I´m back next month, and then he may forgive me for having to stay behind."

Halideyid blinked. So that was what he wanted?

_He was feeling guilty, after all._

"Would you be so kind as to bring him letters from my mother and me?" he asked. The man thought for a moment, then nodded.

"Of course. Why not? Running errands for a captain in Umbar would be a way to make an useless trip worthwhile. Asides from the Númenorean women, of course." he joked. He strode through the room, stopping at the threshold to point at Halideyid warningly. "You must be waiting for me at this hour with the letters, two nights before the departure. Otherwise, I won´t take them."

"I am very grateful." Halideyid´s throat ran dry as he bowed low. "My lord prince."

The Prince of the South looked as if a battalion of Orcs had just appeared before him. He stared at Halideyid, speechless.

"You..." he spoke, with much effort. "How did you _know_....?"

The younger man looked down. He wondered why his heart was racing now, when he had known it for most of the conversation. But such was the power of words, that not until they were spoken did the things they named feel real.

"My father spoke of you, too. _The King poisoned my food and sent men to cut my throat in my sleep, but his grandson befriended me in spite of who I was_ ", he quoted. "I can put two and two together. My lord." he added quickly. The prince looked even more shocked, if that was possible. Only after a while, he managed to shrug it away, but the way in which he looked at Halideyid had changed.

"You have some cheek, then."

"I am sorry. I am really sorry. I did not... mean to offend you."

_What had he done?_ He should have known better enough than to fool around with someone important, much more important even than the commander of the Gate Guards. But he had wanted to know about his father, and the Prince had also wanted to tell him, and, as it seemed, both had felt that only the soldier could do that.

Suddenly, the Prince laughed.

"Now I really have plenty of information to give Hannishtart!" He turned away and headed outside; the wooden planks creaked under his strides as he pulled his hood over his face again. "Two days before the departure. Don´t forget!"

Halideyid´s glance followed him as he shrunk to a small, black dot and disappeared in the night. A feeling of unreality washed over him, and suddenly he noticed that his hand was red from grasping the wooden sword.

 

* * * * *

 

The change had not gone unremarked in the Western Wing. Women gathered in every corner to whisper and discuss the abrupt improvement in the Princess´s mood. She smiled and addressed pleasant words to everyone, did not have difficult nights, and a gardener even claimed she had heard her hum a song while she read a book under the shade of the vines. Her nurse maintained that it had been a good idea to "take the poor child out", with such an air of authority that no one dared remind her of her original opposition to the idea, and even wondered whether they had dreamed it.

One night, as she checked on her before the lights were put away, the old woman saw her lying on her bed, the raven strands of her hair spreading over the silver thread of the cover. Her eyes were wide open, and they followed the movements of her finger as it played with a gold and red trinket. The nurse could identify it as a ruby ring, too large for the Princess to wear in her small hand, before it quickly disappeared inside her fist.

"Oh, that is a beautiful ring!" The old woman hid her surprise carefully; putting her on the defensive had never yielded any good results. "I had never seen it before."

_Could it be?_ Her thoughts raced ahead of her, though she tried to remain focused. The Princess was never alone. She was rarely out of the Western Wing, where many women surrounded her day and night. Even at the victory celebration of the Prince Pharazôn, she had been with her parents all the time. She may be a beautiful and noble princess, but she was so frail, so unstable...  _almost like a small child..._

Zimraphel´s eyes narrowed, as if she could guess her thoughts.

"The King gave it to me."

"Oh! I see." The nurse averted her glance, ashamed. Turning towards one of the curtains, she fidgeted, pretending to fuss with the way it fell. _"_ That is very good. Very good indeed."

"Leave." the Princess ordered, her good mood gone for the first time in days. The old woman bowed.

"Have sweet dreams, my dear", she mumbled before she left.

 


	44. The Fall

 

**The Fall**

 

 

_The King has died!_

_Smoke veiled his eyes, his glorious body was consumed by the flames._

_The King has died!_

_Darkness shrouds his brow, and he will not be seen in this world again._

_The King has died!_

_Now he treads the shadow paths, not to be seen in this world again_.

He struggled against the chains that held his arms, desperate to find a way to smother the chants of the multitude. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he fought, only to become further tangled and fall deeper into the darkness. He knew that he had to get out, open his eyes and _see_ before it covered his face, but he could not. _He needed... needed..._

_My lord! My lord, please, wake up!_

Suddenly, he froze. That voice wasn´t part of the chorus, it addressed him from the urgence of immediacy. Everything else became blurred, as his struggles became weaker and died with a shiver. His eyes, those that were like chasms in his face were open, gazing upon the waking world.

_Dark._ Dark around him, dark outside him.  _Dark upon Númenor._

His terror knew no bounds. It was too late, he had failed. They all had failed, and there was no dawn left to free him.

_My lord! Can you see me?_

"No." His voice was hoarse. "No. Everything is gone."

_Bring in the light!_

Useless. There was no light left in the world. No light left if he failed, and he had failed. The King had died.

_My lord, my King, can you see the light?_

What had he done wrong? What had he overlooked? If only he could know... if only he could see...

"The leaf", he hissed. "Bring me the leaf."

_But, my lord... you are feverish... you are in no shape...now, let the doctor look at you..._

Couldn´t they understand? He _had_ to see!

"The leaf. Now!" he shouted, trying to break free from the chains that now had turned into hands of wretched people. He understood now; they were trying to stop him from seeing. They were in league with _him_ , with his son, who wanted to destroy Númenor.

"I am the King! If you hinder me, you will suffer my wrath!" he threatened. The hands loosened their grip, and some of them left. But two hands stayed, both pressing his right forearm.

_Please, drink this. It will make you feel better._

A warm and sweet smell reached his nostrils, and he recoiled. This was not what he needed. This was an insidious trap designed to stop him from seeking the leaf. It would make him sink deeper and deeper, and forget.

He needed the leaf. He tried to grab at some point of support that would prevent him from slipping. He needed to know.

_The King has died!_ The chorus sang around him.  _The King has died!_

Gimilzôr fell.

 

* * * * *

 

His body screamed for the comfort of the bed, yet Ar-Gimilzôr had made two chamber courtiers carry him to a chair in a private audience room. He had received his younger son and his wife with his head propped against pillows, but that wouldn´t do with _him_. Inziladûn would see him stand, or see him not at all.

Before he was allowed in, Gimilzôr called one of the two men who had helped him, and ordered him to check whether his hair, his diadem and robes were in order, and his face paint well spread. After the man had checked thoroughly, he told him to stand near the curtain, out of earshot but able to see everything that happened in the room. He would not be at a disadvantage, or take any chances in his own quarters.

Still, a mocking voice whispered, it was Inziladûn´s eyes, his bright, piercing eyes that could unravel secrets which had never been spoken aloud, the only thing that had ever put him at a disadvantage. Now, even as he heard the approaching footsteps stop before him, and the rustle of whatever cheap robes he had decided to wear as an insult to his majesty, a part of him felt calmer than it ever had.

"My King, I heard you were taken ill tonight..."

"There is no need for concern", Ar-Gimilzôr cut him at once. "It has passed."

"But you have gone blind!" his son protested, his voice moving closer in his direction. "Surely there is need for..."

"Stay where you are!" Gimilzôr hissed. "I did not give you leave to approach."

He did not hear any more movement in his vicinity, so after a while he allowed his aching back to sink an inch further down the chair. If he had been able to see, he thought, his head would be turning.

After a while, it was Inziladûn who broke the silence. His voice was low, almost a whisper, and yet it carried with a note of pride.

"Do I have leave to speak, then?"

Ar-Gimilzôr nodded. Reduced to a mere voice, his son´s pride seemed almost laughable. It was undistinguishable from the other voices that surrounded him, dressing him or carrying him or giving him ointments and medicines.

"I know what you think of me, and my motives. I know that you will not heed my advice just because it comes from my mouth", he began. "But you have ruled Númenor twice as long as any other king since the ancient times. Even back then, when Men were stronger and wiser, it was the custom to retire when one grew weary, and kings enjoyed a peaceful old age."

"You are crafty, but shameless." Gimilzôr laughed, and his laughter sent sharp stabs through his abdomen. "You pretend to care for my health, and yet you are saying "Give the Sceptre to me". And what then, I wonder? Should I kill myself to spare you my unsightly decline, as your friends the traitors of Andúnië used to do?"

"It is not me you should worry about, but yourself", Inziladûn retorted, unfazed by the accusation. "That was indeed the custom in ancient times, and I hope I will be strong enough to follow the right path when the time comes. I will not suffer needlessly through a greedy desire to live more than the lifespan appointed by the Creator."

"Fine words! Will your gods tell you when you should put an end to your life? Or will the friends of those gods be wise enough to tell you in their stead? Will disagreeing with them be the first sign of your decrepitude? Oh, and then I wonder if the Númenor you are so busy planning, the Númenor where everybody will fall back into the snares of the Elves and the Baalim, will force you to comply with their request!" Ar-Gimilzôr spat. "You think you are wise, but you are a fool. A fool who will stumble on a loose stone while trying to count all the stars. I must protect Númenor from your foolishness, and this is why I will not step down while there is strength in my body and my mind is sharp."

It was sharp now, as sharp as it hadn´t been in a long time. Especially when faced with his eldest son, he had often felt his thoughts blur in his head as he tried to hide them, and anticipate the next manouevre. But not now. He had worked on this for years. Everything was in place... _everything except..._

He winced, remembering last night´s terrible feeling of having missed something. It could have been an irrational fear, caused by his illness, and yet....

"It pains me that you have chosen to see me as an enemy. You exhaust yourself working against me, and yet we could have worked together in harmony."

Inziladûn sounded sincerely regretful. How _presumptuous,_ Gimilzôr thought, his chest inflamed by anger.

"How dare you lay the blame on me! It is you, who decided to deny your ancestors and your father and destroy everything we had built! It is you, who spat on our gods and befriended the same people who would have destroyed our bloodline and seized the Sceptre! It is you who...!" His hands began to shake, and he pressed them against the armrests. _Ride the pain, breathe calmly... do not show weakness._ "But you will not succeed. Your endeavour is cursed by the gods."

"I do not deny my ancestors", Inziladûn argued. He did not remember how long it was since they last argued, or even if they had ever argued before. The relationship between them had been built of silences louder than any word, of secret manouevres and a long, unspoken feud. "My ancestors, and your ancestors, believed in the same things that I believe now, and the Powers that protected them will not curse me."

"I could have you killed for admitting your guilt. I _should_ have had you killed when you first admitted it."

"So why didn´t you?" Inziladûn was losing his temper as well; everything that had always stayed buried under the silence was threatening to come to the surface now. "Because I was a child? You have killed children since."

His voice broke slightly, and yet Gimilzôr perceived it as clearly as the notes of a popular song. Blindness helped him to listen, as sharply as he had seen before. Inziladûn had long kept this hidden in his heart, together with the accusation that he could never utter, but the yearning to know the truth from his lips had remained unquenched.

_The truth that did not exist._ Gimilzôr winced. There was no truth, just a man who followed the capricious impulses of his heart against his better judgement, and tried to atone for it too late. A man who had felt less love for his unborn grandson than for his born son, even though he had already doomed Númenor to war and strife with his first decision.

_There was no truth, only failure._

"You are out of line", he hissed. "I may be old and blind, but I remain King."

There was a long silence, as Inziladûn seemed to be having difficulties reining his temper after having gone that far. It must be excruciating, Gimilzôr thought, to be brought to the point of uttering the accusation he had been forced to swallow for years only to be deprived of an answer.

"And know this..." He paused to take breath, wondering how much more would his body be able to take before it collapsed. "I will not die unprepared. Even after you hold the Sceptre in your hands and wield its power, three hundred years will not be enough to undo everything I have done. When you reach old age and your limbs wither, you will not resign your Sceptre or give your life away, but crawl to the altars of your outlandish gods to beg for more years of life."

The last words had been hissed like a curse, and as he uttered them, Gimilzôr realized that they were one. It was a curse that had been patiently wrought through years of strategies and alliances, designed to endure and track every one of his son´s steps like a shadow. It would be fought, both in secret and openly, with force and with craftiness, but in the end, though it might diminish and waver, it would endure. Gimilkhâd in Armenelos, Melkyelid´s family in Gadir, their associates in Umbar, the priests in the Great Temples and Azzibal in Sor. Pharazôn in the mainland.

_Amandil in Andúnië._

They would all play their part.

"You may leave now."

Inziladûn obeyed in silence this time, as if mulling over his father´s words. Before the footsteps disappeared in the distance, however, he stopped again.

"Father", he said. Ar-Gimilzôr froze. The last time he had heard that word from his son´s lips had been long ago, so much that he couldn´t even remember when. "Father, I..."

"Leave!" he yelled, shaken. The voice came hoarse from his throat, and he doubled over in a fit of coughing. Footsteps hurried towards him, and he tensed, wondering if his son would dare....

"My lord King! Try to breathe easily, the doctor is on his way. Now..."

Taken by a sudden repugnance, Gimilzôr broke free from the man´s obsequious touch. His son had left.

_Gone._

"I said _leave_. I want to be alone." he spat, mastering the cough. The man retreated as suddenly as he had come.

As he was left alone, the King pressed his hands against his face, and wept.

 

* * * * *

 

Long after the crise had passed, and he was back in bed, the small, insidious doubt would not let him rest. It gnawed at him as he sat in the dark, pondering his night visions and relating them to the conversation with his son. While he did so, the yearn to burn the leaves and find clarity in them augmented, until it became almost unbearable. He requested them, ignoring the nagging of the doctor, who claimed that it would bring further harm upon him in his condition.

"This thing calls to people. Once it takes hold of them, they can´t resist its lure. They will want more and more, and feel lost whenever they are not burning it", the man said. "I have seen it happen with seers and priests..."

"Those are lesser men", Gimilzôr cut him with a growl. He would not hear anything else, and when the man went as far as to suggest that the leaves could have been the cause of his blindness, he threw him out and summoned the old Palace Priest. Lord Hannon, always obsequious, was eager to be of service, and he ordered the preparatives to be started at once. The King was carried to the Fire Chapel on a litter, such as were used outside the Gates, to prevent the courtiers from seeing his weakness. Once there, two attendants grasped his arms, and with their help he could advance a few quivering steps before falling on his knees by the altar.

The stone steps were hard, biting his knees with a cold urgency that contrasted sharply with the heat of the fire in his face. He shivered and sweated, unable to remain erect even as he was. But he could not allow others to help him, not before the Great God.

"King of Armenelos", he chanted with a trembling voice, "Lord of Fire, King of Visions."

"King of Visions", a murmur answered behind his back.

"Hear my prayer, grant me knowledge and sight."

"Grant me sight." the echo sang. Slowly, he extended a hand, letting it crawl through the stone in search of the golden pot. Someone pressed it against his fingers, and he grabbed it as a starving man would grab a piece of bread.

As he held it, he realized that he was unable to raise it to his face, as he needed the support of hands and feet. At a loss, he hesitated, but the fumes were already reaching his nostrils, awakening and sharpening his senses. The God was upon him, and He revealed to him that nothing else mattered, that the dignity of his kingship was but dirt at the feet of the One King who had existed before him, and would exist after the descendants of his descendants had relinquished their Sceptres and crumbled to dust. _A pale reflection of immortal perfection, distorted image of the Lord That Is._

Ar-Gimilzôr fell forwards, burying his face on the fuming pot like a dog on his food. There was a stir around him, the sound of worried whispers and a priest hissing to stay back. They reached his ears as if from another room, or another world; he had left them behind.

_Here. Come here._

A voice that he had known since childhood guided him. Once, it had tormented him, hurting him to penetrate his proud self and gain the mastery of his body, but no more. Now, no pain was greater than being left on his own, a shell of the man he had once been, and the divine joining that raised him above this misery had turned into a welcome ecstasy. He followed it eagerly, no longer caring that, down there, his body was too weak to even struggle to its feet.

_Poor blind cripple, lying at the foot of the altar_. A dazzling onslaught of light filled his eyes with tears, and he blinked them away.

_Behold the real light. Down there, you are all blind, you are all buried in darkness._

"Show me the way", he begged. "Show me how I can save Númenor."

Little by little, he grew accustomed to the light, and the haze began to dissipate. As it did, he saw two men standing in front of him. One had piercing grey eyes, and a beard grew over his chin, streaked with grey hairs. The other looked like a younger Gimilzôr, with an elaborately curled black mane and black eyes that did not, however, show any of his shrewd cunning. They were veiled, lost in feelings of inadequacy, jealous thoughts and the always reassuring embrace of alcohol.

_His sons._ The two serpents that would fight over Númenor, because he had made it so. One of them had everything, the gifts of gods and men thrown upon him like a jewelled cloak, but he stood alone before a raging sea. The other, who was nothing but a shadow and a name, would prevail in the end. And once that both had surrendered to the Doom and their bodies lay under the Meneltarma, there would only be one serpent.

The visions dissolved like sand blown by the desert winds, and in their place one, single figure emerged. Large, grey eyes rose to meet his, and he froze. His soul was filled by a sudden dismay, which crept in his entrails like a spilled cold draught.

Zimraphel smiled.

"No!" he hissed. "It cannot be!"

She did not move or disappear, but stood there, as if challenging him. One of her hands was raised before her chin, and he caught a glint of red in one of the fingers. Looking closely, he could distinguish a ring, set with a ruby between golden encircling serpents. It was an old family heirloom, and he remembered wearing it once, until he gave it away to Gimilkhâd... but no, that was not right. He had seen it in Gimilkhâd´s hand, and then on his son Pharazôn´s, but originally he had given it to Inziladûn. He suddenly remembered it, with such clarity of detail that it seemed like it had been yesterday. How could he have forgotten?

_And how could that be?_ How could Inziladûn have passed this ring to Gimilkhâd, his rival serpent? How could she have it now?

_You felt that you had overlooked something, Ar-Gimilzôr King of Men. Now you know._

Zimraphel gazed at the ring lovingly. She brought it to her lips, and kissed the serpents. Suddenly, Gimilzôr´s eyes became more aware of their chiseled heads, and the minute detail of their fangs and their scale-covered coils. It was as if they were growing larger, or closer to his sight.

And then, they started to move. Their heads were raised to face each other, tongues hissing between their teeth as they prepared to strike. Suddenly, one of them darted forwards, but instead of mauling the enemy throat, it coiled around it. The other serpent did not flinch, but reciprocated and embraced its once rival until Gimilzôr saw but one single body where there had been two.

_One serpent._

And then, he understood. Realization dawned upon him, first like a terrible certainty that robbed him of any coherent thought, and, once that his mind reacted, like a powerful feeling of revulsion for the divine will.

It had been long since Gimilzôr had rebelled against the God King. The last time had been when he was made to kill his grandson and spare that of the traitor of Andúnië, and he had almost forgotten the price. He felt himself fall from the heights they had reached, discarded like a piece of chattel after it broke. His limbs connected with the frozen stone floor with a shattering impact, and pain, excruciating pain racked them as he lay there.

_My lord King!_

He tried to move, to speak, but he couldn´t. The light, the glorious light had been taken away from him. There was nothing left... nothing.

Somebody held him, pulling him up, but he could not feel their hands.

 

* * * * *

 

She was no stranger to being summoned to the King´s quarters, even at the most awkward hours of the night. Sometimes he was assailed by doubt, and then he would share his concerns with her. She was the one he trusted the most, a woman, as he used to say, who was both sharp of mind and touched by the gods. Though she belonged to a short-lived merchant lineage, and hailed from barbarian shores, the Goddess had granted her knowledge of things that even they, with their visions and their fumes, could not discern.

This time, however, she could not help feeling uneasy as she told her women to dress her in red silk and braid her hair with gold and left the Southern Wing in haste. Of late, the King hadn´t been himself: years had taken their toll on him, and he had become frail and bitter. That very morning, they had hurried to his bedside only to discover that he had lost his sight. As she saw him then, pale and lying back on his pillow while his eyes gazed at a ceiling that he could not see, she had known that her direst battles were drawing close.

Her feeling of unease increased, mingled with surprise, when she walked through the Jade Gallery and caught a glimpse of the young Princess of the West between the columns. She was standing on the garden at the other side, as if waiting to be ushered in. Neither her father nor her mother were anywhere to be seen.

The Princess of the South signalled the women to remain behind, and stepped inside the Outer Garden. Zimraphel acknowledged her presence by smiling vaguely, but did not say a word. She seemed more interested in following the evolutions of the bright red carps in the pond than in discussing the reason for their summons.

"You may enter", a voice declared from the antechamber. Melkyelid gathered the folds of her robe to cross the garden, and heard the younger woman follow at a slower pace. Nobody else was there; nobody else was expected.

She did not like that.

Asides from being the wife of her father´s younger brother, Melkyelid had no other official connection to Zimraphel. They had never been seen together, or stood inside the same room except for the rare public ceremony that the volatile princess was allowed to attend. Of their other dealings nobody knew... _or did they?_

Her heart beating in her chest, Melkyelid bowed at the threshold of the King´s chamber and proceeded to walk in. She had to do a great effort not to turn her nose at the smell, acrid with sweat and medicine. Two men were carrying a basin and towels outside.

"Come closer", a hoarse voice ordered from the bed. Melkyelid obeyed, forcing herself to remain calm at the spectacle that was offered to her eyes. Ar-Gimilzôr lay there, looking like a broken doll which had been discarded upon the covers. His eyes were larger than ever, protruding from his thin and wrinkled face, which was raised a painful inch as she approached. The rest of his body didn´t - _couldn´t?_ \- move, though his fingers twitched upon his chest.

He looked so much worse than he had that morning, that she guessed that something had happened in between. Bowing again, she swallowed.

"My King, I hurried to your side as soon as I received the summons", she recited. As she did so, she heard a rustle of robes, and Zimraphel stopped at her side. She watched her grandfather in wide-eyed silence.

"There is no time. No time", Ar-Gimilzôr croaked. He seemed to be in an agitated state, but when Melkyelid leaned forwards sollicitously his look surprised her. It was as purposeful and formidable as it had been in better days; the look of a king.

"Your son" he spat, "is bedding his cousin."

Melkyelid rarely lost her composure, or showed a weakness, but this time she couldn´t help herself. Taken by a sudden terror, she flinched.

He did not need more.

"And you knew it. You knew it and turned a blind eye to their incestuous crime", he hissed. "What am I saying? You... you helped them. You did what you could to make them fall in each other´s arms and keep it a secret from everybody in the Palace. You..." His body was racked by a shiver, which made his fingers twitch even more. "That was your plan, wasn´t it?"

The Princess of the South listened to the accusations in a dazed silence. She did not know what to say, how to react to this slip that could ruin everything. For a moment, she surrendered to the sick fascination of watching the downfall of all she had built, like a sand castle crumbling before the Sea.

It was only a moment. Realizing the danger, she bit her tongue, and the pain helped her regain her focus. She muttered a silent prayer to the Goddess, asking her to preserve what mattered most.

"Yes, my lord King", she declared. Her voice did not tremble, _at least_ _this prayer had been answered._ "It was my plan. I knew that the Princess and my son were in love, and understood it as a sign of the Goddess. I knew that this love was meant to be aided, not thwarted. My son was meant to inherit the Sceptre after the death of his uncle, and restore the ways of the gods to Númenor. This was the only way."

"It is _not_. Zimraphel cannot inherit the Sceptre. She is a woman. Moreover, her mind and body are... they are frail, she is not fit, she _cannot_ rule!"

Next to them, the younger woman did not seem fazed by their exchange, or by the words spoken about her as if she was not present. She looked at the wall mosaics, absorbed by thoughts of her own.

"Her father would have married her to one of the kinsmen of the Andúnië lord, his ally", Melkyelid objected. "And, through that marriage bond, they would sit upon the throne of Númenor!"

This gave the King some pause. For a while he remained silent, his brow furrowed in thought.

"You claim that this is the will of the gods, and not... human plotting. But the Goddess would never condone incest", he argued. "It goes against her own laws!"

"Does it?" she retorted. "I have known other peoples who worship Her in Middle-earth, and none of them follow that law! The king of the barbarians who live in the Bay, a pious man blessed with every fortune, is husband to his cousin. Don´t you think, o King, that this could be like the laws on illegitimate children in Ar-Adunakhôr´s time? A custom that a different race established in ages past, brandished by our enemies to thwart us? Would the Goddess, who saved my life when I was born and to whom I consecrated my life blind and misguide me in this manner? Would she and the Great God, the one I am not allowed to name, prefer Númenor to fall in the hands of their enemies, and suffer their temples to be abandoned and destroyed by the impious?"

Realizing that she had gone too far, Melkyelid fell silent, and breathed deeply. Gimilzôr and Zimraphel were staring at her in silence, and it struck her then that both young woman and old man looked strangely similar, like statues left behind by a forgotten race.

She breathed again.

"In any case, if there is wrong in it, the blame is mine", she said, her tone even again. "My son would have fought his desires and turned his back to temptation if I had not convinced him that they were sent by the gods."

Ar-Gimilzôr nodded. For the first time since the start of the conversation his body stirred, but he did not move.

"We must be quick", he declared abruptly. "There is no time."

Melkyelid´s eyes widened a little.

"Do you mean...?" She let her voice trail away, in hidden trepidation. Gimilzôr was growing agitated again, and for a moment she had the mad thought that their argument had been nothing but a dream.

"Quick. We must summon your son back. He is in Gadir... fourteen days of travel if the Goddess is with him. Fourteen days, yes, and three to Armenelos."

"He will not come in time."

She had not spoken since she entered the room, and they had almost forgotten that she could speak. Therefore, her words caught them at unawares, striking them like the clear chime of a bell.

"What do you mean?" Melkyelid asked. The King, however, turned away from his granddaughter, focusing in the urgency of his plan.

"If I, the King, marry them myself, her father won´t be able to oppose it. And if it happens in private, it will not cause a stir. The folk of Armenelos will grow used to seeing them together, and by the time Pharazôn takes the Sceptre..."

"Marry them?" _The Goddess was with her._ "I... understand! I will call him back at once."

"Do it now!" the King urged, his initial opposition all but forgotten. And then Melkyelid knew how he had learned about it, and what had he been doing during the day that had affected him so badly. The Goddess was not the only deity who had helped her; a greater one, who could not hear her prayers, had seen fit to intervene.

This thought heartened her.

"I beg your leave from your presence", she recited with a low, ceremonious bow. He began a vague nod, but at that moment Zimraphel approached to take her own leave. His head froze in mid-movement, and his black eyes narrowed, then widened as if in shock.

"Inzilbêth", he whispered. "Inzilbêth..."

The young Princess of the West bolted away, and now it was Melkyelid who had to follow her quick steps past the people who bustled in the antechamber and back to the garden, where they finally stopped. A sudden unease had cast its shadow upon the Princess of the South, and as she gazed at her companion, she saw tears glistening in her cheek.

"Why are you crying, Zimraphel?" she asked. The young woman shook her head.

"He will not come in time", she repeated, distraught. "He will not."

Gathering her robes, she disappeared into the night, and a shiver pierced Melkyelid´s heart as she stood alone before the moonlit pond.

 

 


	45. Rebirth of the King

Okay, so out with it. I won´t try to sit on this anymore...(sigh). **  
**

 

**Rebirth of the King**

 

 

He heard the deep, rumbling sound of the gates being closed by the strength of many men. Footsteps echoed in the tunnel, with the distant quality of something that belonged to a different world, the world of the living. Then they, too, faded, and silence became absolute.

As he sat on the stone floor, he could hear the beating of his own heart against his chest, the labourings of his lungs that seemed to chafe under the oppresive darkness. The unseen weight of the Meneltarma was upon this narrow chamber, a crushing feeling that made his limbs heavy and piled upon his head until his nose almost touched his chest. A single candle flickered on the other side, but it did not bring light, only a blinding gleam in the midst of the impenetrable night.

Panic sizzled in his entrails, threatening to erupt and blow the walls of his self-restraint. _Why had he allowed them to do this to him, the worshippers of an evil shadow who had been falsely crowned as a god?_ _Why had he submitted to their barbarous ways, instead of putting an end to them here and now?_ If he had seized what was his, they wouldn´t have been able to oppose him. He would sit on his throne, wield the Sceptre and clean island and mainland from the filth of the Hundred Temples.

Soon, however, his sanity struggled to recover the upper hand. The Sceptre was not his. It belonged to the King, in whose cold hands it lay even now, feet away from him. Whoever seized it would be accursed, even his heir, because the heir of the King was not the King.  _In Heaven and Earth, there is only one King._

This had been so for his father, and the father of his father since hundreds of years ago. For three days they would remain buried, deprived from the light of sun and moon and intercourse with the living. Then, and only then, would the gates be opened, and the King, living image of Melkor, would wake and tread the ground of the Upper World again. There was no Ar-Gimilzôr and no Ar-Inziladûn: both were the King, eternal and immutable.

Inziladûn´s lips curved at the bitter irony. He may wield the Sceptre, but even then he couldn´t do what he wanted. Not even in death would his father release his grip on him, and Melkor would leave his altars to creep under his very skin, where he would prove a far deadlier foe than he had been outside. For how could the embodiment of Melkor go against his own interests? Ar-Adunakhôr, the king whose name was blasphemous in Andúnië, had laid the riddle, to trap his sucessors in its snare. Only through what he most hated would he achieve power, and in achieving it he would become part of it.

Slowly, he stretched his limbs, realizing in shame how tightly they had curled in the darkness. He sat on the floor and set his hands on his knees, where they began rubbing the painful stiffness in quick and furious motions. _They had not reckoned with him_ , he smiled grimly. That he would allow himself to be trapped here and still honour the Valar in his heart, that he would participate in their rituals while endeavouring to destroy them, and be both the face of Melkor and his greatest enemy, they had not counted on that. No more than they had counted on a traitor King, on a Faithful standing on the steps of their fire altar, or the blood of Andúnië flowing through the veins of the main line. Only his father had seen, and known, what this would portend, and tried his utmost to prevent it.

_I could have you killed for admitting your guilt._

Inziladûn stopped working on his legs, as a shiver crossed his spine. _Not his utmost_ , the insidious voice of truth that had tormented him so many times whispered, yet again, in his ear. He had plotted, outlawed, exiled, killed, but at the end of the day the object of all his manouevres was sitting in this dark tomb, unharmed and ready to seize the Sceptre from his hands. To his last breath, Ar-Gimilzôr had refused to reveal the reason for this, and now he had taken it to the Outer Circles of the world.

Taken by a sudden inspiration, Inziladûn crawled towards the light. There, on a bed of gold and precious stones lay his father, the glow of the candle falling on his still features. Blinking the radiance away, the heir to the throne glossed over the silver thread finery, the purple, the golden diadem and even the Sceptre itself to look at his face. He swallowed.

The black eyes were open, looking at Inziladûn as if about to send him away with a harsh dismissal. It was the craft of the embalmers of Númenor to make the King look like he was alive, so the crowd who saw him as he was paraded to his last dwelling would believe in his ritual immortality. Only after the Sceptre was taken, and he left alone in his chamber for eternity, would a gold mask be set to cover them.

It took Inziladûn a much different kind of courage from what he had needed to look at the living Gimilzôr, to be able to hold the glance of those dead eyes. He knelt gazing at them, wishing and yet fearing the emergence of a truth from the dark depths that had been forever closed to him. But they would yield none, and after a while he suddenly felt nauseated. Those eyes were empty: they were open and yet they were not, a mockery of life in death. His father did not live behind them, or under the rich finery, black curls and flawless skin. Those had been taken from him and used to wrap a bag of sawdust, lending human appearance to a mere thing. Inziladûn turned aside in disgust.

Why did they refuse to acknowledge the truth? Why couldn´t they be at ease with the notion that one day their souls would part with their bodies and leave the Circles of the World? They had lost sight of the Music, of the harmony of the world, to such an extent that they could not even comprehend how others would follow its guidance and submit willingly to its order. In their ignorance, they feared what they did not know.

Other kings had spread that ignorance for their own purposes, to control the people and carry their will. In the end, it had turned against them, until they became the first among the believers of lies and their wisdom dwindled, their lifespan diminished, and fear took a powerful hold of their minds. But once upon a time it had been them who brought the change to Númenor and to their subjects.

He, Inziladûn, would be able to do it, too.

_When you reach old age and your limbs wither, you will not resign your Sceptre or give your life away, but crawl to the altars of your outlandish gods to beg for more years of life._

A shiver tingled in his spine, though no breeze entered the underground tomb. He crawled back into the darkness, and curled on the floor.

 

* * * * *

 

There was no way to keep track of time in the bowels of the earth, where Sun, Moon and stars were but a dream. Inziladûn shifted restlessly between sleep and the waking world, consumed by visions. The heavy air of this closed space was like a drug, and as the candle dwindled so did the feel of the stone under him and the darkness around him and everything that kept him rooted to reality.

He saw his mother many times, looking at him with her sad grey eyes. He tried to speak to her, but then she would turn into Zimraphel, who turned away from him as the Sea took her and he could do nothing to prevent it because she was too far away. The Wave was upon Númenor, like a black mountain of dread rearing its white peaks amidst a deafening roar. It came from the West, engulfing the Bay of Eldanna, the lands of Andúnië and the vineyards of the Hyarnustar, and advancing over the King´s Plain towards Armenelos and the Meneltarma. The proud city of the Three Hills awaited his doom, powerless to escape -when suddenly, something happened.

Inziladûn watched in astonishment as the Wave stopped, and its crest hung above the palaces and the streets for a moment of heavy silence before dissolving like a stricken beast. Before it stood one white tree.

His head tossed around and bumped against a stone wall. Wide awake, he lay on his back for a while, allowing the pain to flood his senses and bring clarity. His heart was beating fast again.

_It was the first time._ The first time that the Wave, which had troubled his dreams for nights uncounted, had not fulfilled its promise of destruction. The tree which had stopped it grew in the Palace, in the outer courtyard where Inziladûn had discovered it as a child.  _A tree of the Elves_ , or so he had always heard, until his friends of Andúnië had told him more. Grown from a sapling brought from the Blessed Lands, it was a scion of Telperion, the silver tree that gave light to the Elves before the Moon existed. In Númenor, it was a symbol of kingship, and of the favour of the Valar.

Confused, he wondered what could this portend.  _Was Ilúvatar sending him a new message, telling him how the disaster could be averted?_

After a long while, he could feel his head hurt, and not because of the stone he had bumped it against. Lack of food, and the heaviness of the air made hard thinking a painful endeavour. When he was back to the Palace, and his most trusted friends and counsellors were with him... when he could talk about this with Valandil and Númendil, they would know what to make of this riddle.

Now he was alone, with only his father´s corpse to give him company. Passing a hand over his forehead, he winced at the bitter irony. What wouldn´t he have given in the past to be locked in a room with his father as he was now, away from the trappings of ceremony and the eyes and ears of courtiers, and forced by need to listen to each other! Back when he was young, this would have been his chance to explain himself, and convince his father of the purity of his intentions. Later, the passing of the years had destroyed that illusion, but the need to make himself heard had only given way to the need to hear.

He and his father were enemies, as it had been decreed since before he was even born. Inziladûn had accepted it, together with the rest of his responsibilities that his position entailed, but some part of him had always obsessed over this idea of communication, of rebuilding bridges that had been burned long ago. It was an unseemly feeling that went beyond the wish to bring change to Númenor, the need of satisfaction for a crime, or even human curiosity that required answers for certain questions. It brought to his mind a child who was forced to leave a garden long ago, a child who had done something terribly wrong and upset his father, but didn´t know why. That day he had believed that theirs was a misunderstanding that words could solve, too young yet to know about differently coloured pieces that faced each other on the chess board. Somehow, this belief had survived, sometimes hidden far beneath the surface of his thoughts, sometimes coming back to increase his frustration tenfold. If only he could make him _understand..._

Now, of course, there was nothing left to understand, and nobody left to understand it. His father was not there, only his body. That was why he could crawl towards it, lean over its face and peer into its eyes, eyes that would have turned away in fear and hatred before a cold voice dismissed him from the room.

_What had he wanted to hide?_ Had it just been the details of his schemes, or something larger and more important? Of the former, Inziladûn had guessed enough: he had tried to leave his key pieces in the most favourable position possible, and Inziladûn´s own pieces in the most unfavourable ones. Forced to undo everything that his predecessor had done, he would either be betrayed by his own impatience or his plans would have to be considerably slowed down. And after his death the threat to the gods of Númenor would die with him, for he had no heir. It was for that purpose that Pharazôn, the son of Gimilkhâd, had been sent to the mainland, and each and every one of his feats celebrated as magnificently as the great wars of old.

Inziladûn was wary of his heroic nephew, but even more wary of his mother. For the last years Melkyelid of Gadir had been at the King´s side, and they had taken counsel together. She was surely one of his key pieces, and on more than one front: mother of Pharazôn, she was also wife of Gimilkhâd, Inziladûn´s brother and rival, and daughter of Magon of Gadir, the lord of the Merchant Princes. She was intelligent and perceptive, and it was widely rumoured that she knew something of divination and visions as well. Inziladûn recalled how she had been the first to know that Zarhil was expecting a child, even before his wife had noticed it herself. Her gentle voice and charming manners could not fool him; she would prove a formidable enemy.

Still, all those enemies that his father had created for him, from the conception of his younger brother to the alliance with Magon, would not be able to prevail against his own determination. If patient he had to be, he would be so, though the fumes of the altars asphyxiate him and the Meneltarma crush him with its weight. He had waited many years, but the lords of Andúnië had waited centuries. If they had borne it for the good of Númenor and the survival of their line and hopes, so would he. And if one step forwards would mean three steps backwards, he would sit still in this tomb, before the altar, and in the throne, until the moment arrived.

_And then you will see, my lord King! You will see the true greatness of Númenor, the Anadúnë of old, free from fear and superstition and no longer hated by the other peoples of Arda. You will see how the palaces of Armenelos shine, free from the fumes of your altars, and the mallorn trees of Eldanna sag under the weight of golden flowers to welcome the emissaries of the Blessed Lands. You will see the roads and harbours open before us to the South and North, and their people greet us as friends coming to deliver them from the Enemy, the real Enemy, who now protects them from us!_

Spurred by his own vehemence, he was barely aware that he had begun speaking aloud. His voice sounded out of place in the dwelling of the dead, carrying a disturbing echo over stone walls that had not heard such a sound for centuries. Unsettled, he fell silent, and looked around him as if he expected to see something that had been stirred awake by the intrusion. Then, taking a deep breath, he looked down.

_This was foolishness. His father could not hear him, nor could he see anything that happened within this world until it was broken and remade._

Ar-Gimilzôr´s lips curved into a smile, eerie under the soft candlelight.

"And yet you will never be free of me. When you take my Sceptre and leave this place, I will follow."

Inziladûn fell backwards, livid. He felt the stone colliding against his back, which proved that he was awake, and yet he had heard the dead talk, and the dry lips move to utter the words.

Shaking, he forced himself to look again at those eyes that, for the briefest of moments, he had seen stir with a living emotion. There was none in them now, except for the false life lent to them by an embalmer´s craft. Regaining courage, he leaned closer, searching for the slightest signal, the slightest evidence of what had taken place. He had not imagined it, but seen it with the same eyes with which he looked upon the corpse now. Had it been a trick played by the powers of evil, a malicious temptation sent to frighten him and throw his beliefs into turmoil on the eve of his accession?

_Or maybe..._ He reeled, slowly gathering back the threads of his mind. Long ago, he had heard stories about his grandfather Ar-Sakalthôr the Mad, as some called him in their whispered conversations. One of those stories concerned his ritual burial, at the time of his own father´s death. Rumour had it that before he passed under the Meneltarma he had been an eccentric man, prone to strange moods and unusual pursuits, but that he came out of the cave a madman. The priests and the embalmer had found him lying on the floor, raving, and spirited away from the sight of the assembled people as soon as possible to prevent anyone from noticing their new king´s condition. Inziladûn had never been sure of what parts of those stories could be trusted and what had been invented or distorted by gossipers. He had his own ideas about what had been the matter with Ar-Sakalthôr, which were painfully evidenced whenever he set eyes upon his own daughter. Their madness was due to a seeing gift, the same that they shared with their kinsmen and ancestors, sharpened into a biting curse. Ar-Sakalthôr, like his great-granddaughter, had seen visions in the waking world, and they had disturbed him.

Had those visions been triggered by this oppressive darkness? The fear pulsed under his chest. Had there been something in this cave that brought them forth, and was that something working on Inziladûn´s mind as well? He had been sent dreams, and the gift of his family ran so true in him that people called him far-seeing.

In that case, he thought, it was more important than ever that he kept his wits. The visions of his Elven blood showed things that were true, and if he had the strength to use them for his own purposes instead of letting himself be carried away by them, he would gain precious wisdom. So far, the darkness had shown him two things: the White Tree stopping the Wave, and now this.

_When you take my Sceptre and leave this place, I will follow._

There was a clear meaning to those words. No dead man could come back to life, and no power could possibly contend with the ways of the world as they were woven into the Music at the beginning of times, but before Ar-Gimilzôr died he had left others who would take his place and lead his faction after he was gone. This, however, did not offer any new insight to Inziladûn, who had been preparing against that scenario for decades.

Did it mean that he would never be free of the King´s shadow? That breaking away from him, and from the tradition of Ar-Adunakhôr, would end in ultimate failure? The very idea made him reel. It went against the ultimate cornerstone of his beliefs, the trust in Ilúvatar and the knowledge that he had been left a chance to avert the disaster. Or maybe it could be the warning of some peril that threatened to hinder his step?

His head ached again. Here, in this hole, there was nothing he could do but think, and yet the act of thinking brought him pain and dizziness. Still, he knew that if he tried to rest, visions and dreams would assault him as soon as he lowered his guard. If this was some kind of test, he longed for some insight he could grasp, something that would give it a meaning, but it eluded him like grains of sand trickling away from his grip. He pressed his palms against his mouth, smothering a groan of frustration.

It was maybe a blessing in disguise that nobody could be there to keep him company and witness this indignity. He wondered how his father had taken this, if even he had lost his prized composure as he sat in this dreadful place before the embalmed body of Ar-Sakalthôr. Probably, he thought with an edge of bitterness, he just sat there and prayed to the Great God for aid and protection in his future tasks, his eyes alight with devotion and fervour. He who had given himself to the darkness had no reason to fear it, as he had become part of it. Inziladûn, on the other hand, was an enemy here -an enemy of the Great God and of the Eternal Kings of Heaven and Earth.

Maybe  _they_ , and not his Elven blood, were sending these thoughts and these visions, to drive him insane.

"I could have killed you."

Inziladûn lowered his head, refusing to look up.

"Do you know why I let you live?"

_He would not let them defeat him. He would not._

"The King of Armenelos did not accept that sacrifice. He had plans for you."

The Prince of Númenor shivered. _Could it be...?_

Almost at once, he forced the question to die in his mind. Only an evil power could have possibly tried to plant that insidious seed, and he would not heed it.

"Do you know why, then? What other reason could there be to spare a traitor like you?"

Inziladûn felt the sudden urge to bolt away. He wanted to be as far from that voice as possible, to leave this place and run through the secret passages towards the light. But the door was shut, and he could not open it. He knew that as soon as he tried, and banged his head against the unyielding iron, the madness growing within him would be unleashed.

"Be silent", he said. "My father is dead, and you cannot speak for him."

The firmness of his own tone reassured him, making him feel slightly better for a moment before it spoke again.

"Can _you_?"

It was excruciating to hear his father´s voice, twisted into this evil mockery of a conversation. Each and every one of the words were pronounced with the same solemn ponderousness that the King had used in his dealings with his son, becoming curt and harsh when contradicted. The final vowels dragged for the exact amount of time, as well as the small pause he used to make between sentences. It sounded like him to the last detail, tempting him with the information that he had always wanted the most to have. But that was the point when they diverged, and even as he thought about it, Inziladûn´s thoughts regained their clarity.

_His father had never wanted to talk about this._ He had evaded his glances, forced him to swallow his questions and hide his turmoils.  _You are out of line_ , he had said the last time that they met on the world of the living. And for a moment Inziladûn had perceived a hint of an emotion, a flash of shame and fear in his countenance. Ar-Gimilzôr  _feared_ the subject. He was aware of having done wrong, and had acknowledged as much.  _I should have had you killed when you first admitted it._

And still, though he knew he had done wrong by his god and his ancestors, he had persisted in his mistake to the end. Inziladûn was alive, and not as a pawn in a sinister plan but as a flaw in it.

"My father couldn´t kill me", he said, and even as the words came out of his mouth, a lightness spread through his chest. "He couldn´t kill me because I was his son. And so he disobeyed."

The voice was silent, and Inziladûn knew that he would not hear it again. _He had won._

Carefully, he advanced towards the body to look upon its features, this time without fear. It might have been his imagination, but he could definitely feel as if the air of the cavern had become less oppressive, the darkness less pronounced. The ache in his head and limbs dissipated as he walked, not crawling like an animal anymore but standing on his feet.

There was no sign of life in his father´s countenance. And yet he was somehow more alive than before, when Inziladûn had seen his lips move. For the first time, he had been able to discover something there, something that made him see the dead man in a different light. This change in his perception brought an illusion of life, which was not fell or evil but comforting.

Slowly, he knelt before him, and took a deep breath. For a moment he felt overwhelmed, as he realized how much this feud had been weighing on his soul. His throat hurt and his lungs burned, but still he leaned over the corpse and spoke

_When you take my Sceptre and leave this place, I will follow._

"Father," he said, feeling for the first time as if addressing the dead was not madness. His voice sounded hoarse. "You always hid your thoughts from me, as I hid mine from you. You gave yourself to darkness, and I to light, so we were enemies since I was young enough to remember. "He paused for a moment, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "And yet, for all this time I never could hate you, and this confused me. And now, I know that you could not hate me, either, and that it must have confused you as well. "This pause was even longer, and finding the words more difficult. "That is why, before I am hailed as King, I wish to make peace. Your plans will hold me back, as you intended, but not you. "

Ar-Gimilzôr´s eyes looked back at him, without seeing. Suddenly, right behind him, the candle flickered and died.

Far beyond, at another part of the mountain, Inziladûn heard the echo of a low rumble.

 

* * * * *

 

The door of the chamber opened, casting a dim glow over the darkness where Inziladûn was sitting. Three shadows stood upon the threshold, and for a while he was too blinded by the light to see their faces. Then, slowly, he raised his glance towards theirs.

They took this as a cue to enter. In the same, eerie silence that they had kept as they led him to this place they set to work, while Inziladûn felt a tiny breeze flow around him and freeze his sweat for the first time in days. The embalmer knelt before the corpse, bowing three times, and proceeded to extricate the Sceptre from the cold fingers. The High Priest received it solemnly and walked towards Inziladûn, who, as if in a dream, felt himself be helped to his knees by the Guardian of the Mountain, covered in a purple cloak, crowned with a diadem and offered the ultimate emblem of Númenórean royalty. Then, both men fell to their knees before him.

The embalmer, meanwhile, kept himself away from those comings and goings. Under the light of the torch he had brought, he hovered around Ar-Gimilzôr´s corpse like a large bird of prey. Inziladûn heard the clink of clay and metal and the splash of some liquid, but refused to look closer until the golden mask was brought. Slowly, it clicked into place, and his father´s eyes were hidden forever.

After his work was over, the man picked up his utensils, bowed low again and retrieved his torch. The High Priest of Melkor had also brought one, which he picked up again for the return journey. Its wavering gleam allowed Inziladûn a glimpse of the richly painted walls of what had been his prison, a beauty fated to remain buried in darkness. But before them the Guardian, who walked first, bore no light.

Slowly, they crossed the threshold, Inziladûn stopping to look for the last time at his father´s resting place. There his body would lay, forever preserved from decay, an unknown mockery of the Elves that he had always hated. Whispering a prayer to Eru Ilúvatar, he begged that Gimilzôr´s soul might find truth beyond the Circles of the World, and a knowledge that would put an end to all the superstitions and fears that had made him suffer while he lived. As he did so, he felt strangely detached, as if proving his father wrong was not important anymore. This was a liberating feeling, and he left the place with the light step of someone who had not been imprisoned and fasting for three days.

The Guardian of the Mountain walked ahead, leading the small group through the impenetrable maze of tunnels and chambers. His step did not hesitate, even though the glow of the torches did not reach him. He seemed at ease in this darkness, as if, for him, the bowels of the mountain were a well-known home where his ancestors had dwelt for ages uncounted. Behind him the High Priest of Melkor, Inziladûn and the embalmer struggled to follow his lead.

He was not aware of how long they had been walking though purposefully misleading paths, by whose twists and turns even the smallest of distances could have seemed like a hundred miles. The feeling of disorientation increased his weariness, which became more and more pronounced with the passing of time. Still, at a certain point, the air began to feel lighter, and the darkness less pronounced. Taking heart from this, he gathered his strength to continue.

The threshold of the Meneltarma was a huge pillared hall carved inside the rock. It was full of statues of dead kings, among whose silent rows the party made their way towards the exit. The light of the torches was no longer necessary, as the open gates allowed the radiance of sunlight to come flooding into the world of the Dead. This only happened once in a century, when a Ruling King passed away.

_When the King was reborn._

As Inziladûn set foot outside the mountain, a clamour reached his ears. He blinked to accustom his eyes to the change of light once more, and a crowd emerged from the haze, stretching beyond his sight.

The High Priest flanked him, grabbing the arm that held the Sceptre and holding it up high for everyone to see.

"The King has come!" he shouted. The clamour turned into a deafening roar.

"Hail the King!"

"He came back from the Darkness in triumph!"

"Hail the King!"

"Now he treads upon the living world, where he will dwell until the end of time!"

Inziladûn forced his arm to stay firm in the elderly priest´s grip, repressing the urge to flee back into the darkness. _Under my skin,_ he remembered, shivering under the rain of devotion. Those people were not hailing him, they hailed the King who had risen from the tomb.

_They hailed Melkor._

For the last time in his life, Ar-Inziladûn King of Númenor allowed himself to feel uncertainty.

 

 


	46. Eroding Waters

 

 

**Eroding Waters**

 

"Rise for the King!"

A flurry of robes and chairs followed the herald´s chant as Ar-Inziladûn crossed the threshold of the Council Chamber. At a brisk pace, so unlike his father´s majestic stride that he almost could feel the shock thicken into an invisible wall around him, he walked towards the high chair at the head of the table. Standing in that spot, he commanded a view of the place and everybody in it, and for a moment he paused to look at them as one would study a map before engaging in battle. For this was also a map, a map of Númenor where seating combinations traced borders and roads, joining fawaray lands or dividing neighbours by rival interests, old grudges or opposed loyalties.

Zakarbal of Soronthil sat on the right side, together with his adoptive son. Next to them was the young man´s birth father, Shemer of Hyarnustar, talking to his brother, the halfwit whose immoderate feasting had acquired quite a reputation in Armenelos. The Northeastern lord, on his part, had come with his own assistant, a powdered man whom Inziladûn did not know. All six of them, councilmen and their people, had risen as one the moment that the King´s entrance had been announced.

At the other side of the table, meanwhile, a different cluster of people had been gathering. Sitting closest to him was Bodashtart, Itashtart´s sucessor as High Priest of the Forbidden Bay and governor of the Northwest. At his right were Hannon the Palace Priest and the High Chamberlain, who, together with their own assistants, had been laughing at a remark he had made when Inziladûn came in through the door. Even further behind them was Gimilkhâd, surrounded by the largest throng of people in the room. They made a colourful array, with Gimilkhâd´s purple and jewels, the merchants´s gaudy outfits and the ostentatious leopard mantle worn by the governor of Sor, a short and broad man who had left the largest and proudest retinue at the Audience Chamber below. Ithobal, Gimilkhâd´s foster-brother, curved his painted lips into a smile as one of the merchants leaned to whisper a word in his ear. The merchant´s forehead was glistening with sweat from the early summer heat, and Inziladûn caught a glimmer of gold in it before he turned his attention towards the only man who had remained seated.

The High Priest of Melkor was an old man, and yet years seemed to hang from his shoulders like the purple cloak, an ornament for his majesty. He alone among all the councilmen could remain seated when the others had to stand: the highest servant of the God King bowed to no one. When Inziladûn gazed into his eyes he looked back at him, defying the new Númenórean ruler in silence. This one knew very well the perils that would assail his position with this King upon the throne, and meant to show his determination to fight for the privileges accorded by Ar-Adunakhôr.

Inziladûn, however, had the measure of him in one glance. In spite of the appearances, the man was a coward at heart, and if there was a confrontation he would prefer to stay away from it, using others as his weapons. He had done it with Gimilzôr, with whom he had clashed often, because of the late King´s repeated attempts to take over his religious functions.

Taking his eyes off him, Inziladûn let them trail over the man who stood at his side. As he did so, he perceived the scorching heat of power, flashing before his eyes for a brief second. Then, the man frowned, and the King felt pulled away by an invisible force. Surprised, he suppressed the urge to reel back. He had been rejected, not with words or commands but by the sheer force of that man´s will.

_This was the weapon._ Yehimelkor, the descendant of Alashiya. Yehimelkor the kinsman of Melkorbazer, Inziladûn´s external grandfather. Yehimelkor, who had saved the child Amandil even when all of Inziladûn´s complicated ploys seemed doomed to fail in the end, baffled by a boy´s stubbornness.

It was an irony that a man who had so many reasons to be his ally would be standing beside the lord of the dark temple, battling him with his glance. But Yehimelkor´s devotion to Melkor was like a  _mithril_ armour with no cracks, and so it remained long after the son of the Faithful had come and gone from his life. Now, he served the High Priest loyally, but one day, not very far ahead, he would be High Priest himself. And that day, the King would find a bitter enemy in this priest of the deep eyes and sharp-lined face.

Taking a sharp breath, Inziladûn sat down. Everybody promptly followed his example, the twelve councilmen in their silver chairs and their twelve assistants behind them. It was the first time that the Council gathered since the death of Ar-Gimilzôr three months earlier, and it was a moment for testing pulses and gauging intentions. Tension was in the air as they looked at him, waiting for his speech.

"I welcome you, friends, to this Council", he spoke in a clear, ringing voice that echoed across the hundred columns of the chamber. "Our mourning is not over, and yet it is time to put grief away for a while and set our minds to matters of state."

Gimilkhâd arched a painted eyebrow in a vaguely incredulous gesture, but nobody challenged his words. Inziladûn knew that the gossip concerning his relationship with his father had not died with Gimilzôr, and yet the new king was determined to kill it as soon as possible.

"I will now hear what you have to say", he continued, looking towards his brother-in-law Zakarbal. He was head of the landholders by virtue of his older ancestry and his kinship with him, and traditionally the landholders had spoken first. From the times when he had taken the role of his father´s secretary, however, he knew that this custom had been disregarded. This went unchallenged as well, though he could perceive a hint of growing wariness in the looks of some.

Zakarbal did not hesitate.

"I ask for your leave to marry my heir to the Lady Senna, daughter of the Palace Priest." He gave a well-rehearsed nod of acknowledgement in Hannon´s direction, which the fat courtier reciprocated with a simpering smile. The tension was eased, except in the eyes of Gimilkhâd and the merchants that surrounded him. _They had not expected that._

"The Lord Hannon is my beloved childhood teacher, a revered priest and a member of this Council." Inziladûn replied. "Your request is granted, and I will attend to the wedding myself, as soon as all the steps of mourning are duly achieved."

"I am humbled by your kindness!" Hannon bowed, as much as his age and the enormous bulk of fat that covered his body allowed him. His usually shrewd look did not show any sharp edges today; he knew that he was part of a small theatre play but did not mind at all. He had been waiting for this day for too long.

Other requests and concerns followed Zakarbal´s, many more than what Inziladûn remembered from his father´s council sessions. He could recognize most of them for what they were: mere pretexts to test him, to see how would he react to their petitions and whom would he favour or deny. Like a soldier in battle, he stood ready for each of them, parrying and deflecting the points of their poisoned swords as they came. He delayed a request for harbour repair funds from the governor of Sor, then rejected a plea from Hyarnustar for lower taxes on their wine. The representative from the Merchant Princes of Umbar was given more troops to face the growing unrest on the land of Harad, and Inziladûn asked the Gadir representative if they needed help as well.

The gold-skinned man whom he had seen sweating at the beginning of the session, who sat beside Gimilkhâd in an outfit of green and deep violet, assuaged his concerns with an amiable smile that did not reach his eyes. He had been the associate and nephew of the infamous Magon, and now had taken his place at the Council.

"We are not a warring people. We conduct our trade peacefully and keep a good relationship with the mainland. If they see too many soldiers they might start mistrusting our intentions, and that would be bad for business."

Inziladûn frowned.

"And yet I have heard of fighting in the Bay of Gadir. My own brother´s son" he sought Gimilkhâd´s glance briefly, "is there now, is he not?"

"He is paying a visit to his mother´s family." Magon´s nephew replied. He was still smiling, and yet Inziladûn noticed that he had spoken before Gimilkhâd could have the chance to do so. "Being a young and sucessful general, however, he conducted some skirmishes against the armies of Mordor on his way to the Bay. Seen from the Island, Middle-Earth seems to shrink, but it is a vast land, my lord king."

Inziladûn felt vaguely insulted by his condescendence, which seemed to imply that he could not read a map. But this was not important now, a mere distraction to blind him to the main point. That man did not want to admit that they had problems, or that they needed help from the Sceptre, and he wondered why.

"Still, we do live in evil times, my lord King, "the governor of Sor nodded sententiously. "Our colonies are assailed repeatedly by the Enemy and his allies, and though we work night and day we barely manage to provide ships for our soldiers to cross the Sea."

Inziladûn was tempted to arch an eyebrow at this grim assessment, since the man had been pressuring for funds. It was much easier to deal with those who asked for things than with those who refused them, as his old teacher had taught to him. And yet, the opening that he provided was useful.

"I have been concerned about that. We must have done something to anger the gods, if they would bring all these hardships on us."

"And what could that be, my lord King?"

The one who spoke had been Bodashtart, the priest and governor of the Forbidden Bay, but Inziladûn could feel the weight of other, unvoiced questions, darted at him from the depths of many eyes. For a moment, he had the unpleasant feeling that Yehimelkor was reading his thoughts like he would an open book, anticipating his moves. He discarded it almost at once: Yehimelkor was but an embodiment of his own fears, those that had roamed his mind at unguarded hours before his time came.

He took breath.

"We worship our gods, honour their festivities and offer them magnificent temples and sacrifices. But meanwhile, we have neglected Him who is father to them all, Eru who shaped the world. He does not like temples, statues or offerings, and yet He has known worship in our kingdom in the past."

"Three times a year there used to be a procession to the highest peak of the Meneltarma", old Hannon chimed in in a slow, wheezy voice. Zakarbal nodded at once.

"I remember that tale from my ancestors. Could the growing of the Shadow in Middle-Earth be the result of our neglect of this custom?"

The High Priest of Melkor had been exchanging glances with the man who stood at his side, but now he turned towards Inziladûn and the Council.

"It is the lore of the Four Temples that neglect was not at the root of the end of the Three Great Processions," he said. "It was the blindness of the worshippers. They started making images of Eru and offering sacrifices, until the Holiest Days were besmeared with sacrilege. It was then that the King decided to put an end to them."

"I have heard that, too", Bodashtart chimed in. "To each his due. Men feast upon the creatures that tread the earth and sea, gods feast upon the fumes of the sacrifices, but neither meat nor fume can reach the High Heaven."

"But this was not the original custom" Lord Shemer argued. "The custom was corrupted by Men, who were themselves corrupted."

"And this corruption is at the root of everything", Hannon mumbled with a sententious nod.

"The fumes of the sacrifices may not reach the High Heaven, but if our hearts are not pure, the darkness that emanates from them will raise higher than any wisp of smoke." Inziladûn stood up; there was passion in his voice as he addressed the Council now. "Let us prove our purity to Eru! We will re-establish the Holiest Days, and declare this a Year of Renewal."

"A Year of Renewal?" Bodashtart´s eyes widened. "But that hasn´t happened since..."

"Ar-Abattarîk." Inziladûn replied. "He declared a Year of Renewal after the defeat of the Umbarian troops in Harad, during the tenth year of his reign. Ceremonies were conducted, prisoners were freed, exiles were recalled and debts were condoned. "Some slanderous tongues had insinuated that this last thing had been largely at the root of his decision. Soon there would be slanderous tongues second-guessing his own decision, too, and Inziladûn guessed what they would be saying.

"Can we allow ourselves such a luxury?" Gimilkhâd spoke for the first time. At his side, the representatives from Umbar and Gadir did not look pleased, and a low rumble of murmurations began spreading through the Hall like fire.

"We do not speak of luxury when we seek the favour of Heaven," Zakarbal argued. "Without it we are nothing, and all our enterprises are doomed to fail!"

"Heaven may favour us better if we help ourselves," the governor of Sor muttered rebelliously. Magon´s nephew, who hadn´t spoken since the exchange about unrest in the Gadir area, now knitted his forehead in a golden frown.

"Will the Exiles be allowed to return to their land?"

Inziladûn did not lower his glance, though the grip of his fingers on the table became stronger.

"The governor of Sor has complained many times to the late king about the rabble that crowds his lands. This would be an opportunity to lighten the load."

"But then, "Bodashtart´s eyes widened in growing realization "would those exiles be allowed to return to the Andustar? That land falls under the jurisdiction of the Cave!"

"There is an imbalance in this island. "Inziladûn´s voice was raised above the turmoil. He had not expected to be challenged so strongly or so soon, but the Merchant Prince from Gadir had known when and where to strike with a shrewdness that belied his youth. Just like his uncle and predecessor, he was a force to be reckoned with. "For many years now, the East has been overpopulated, while the West is empty. In the East, many people suffer from shortages of food and cannot find employment, but in the West there are not enough hands to till fertile lands that lie abandoned and produce nothing. If the Exiles return to their former homes, both the Cave and the Governor would be better served, and the civil strife that caused so much pain and destruction will finally become a thing of the past. Would that not please Eru and the gods, and be beneficial to Númenor?"

"This sounds very inspiring." Gimilkhâd´s mouth curved in a grimace that seemed to indicate the very opposite. "But there is a reason why those people were exiled. The late king Ar-Sakalthôr, in his great mercy, tried to bridge this chasm and allowed them to return for a while, and instead of abandoning their former purposes they committed treason again. They have fallen too deep in thrall to the sorcery of the Demons of the West, and their servants the Elves." Some people murmured their assent. "What makes you think that this time would be different?"

Inziladûn had purposefully avoided addressing the issue of the return of the Andúnië line, and yet it was on the table now. He bit his lip, to smother a shuddering sigh of frustration.

"I spoke of a Year of Renewal, and the recall of all the exiles. Those people have lived as beggars in the East since the time of Ar-Adunakhôr for a crime committed by their ancestors, and have never been given the chance to prove their own loyalty by any of the later kings. They were not recalled, and therefore they are not guilty of what you accuse them of. But since you have raised the issue of the Lord of Andúniê and his family, who are also exiles and would be similarly affected by this decree... "He paused for a moment, and realized belatedly that the whole Council had fallen silent, hanging on his every word. "I am aware of their second exile, and of the concerns that their loyalties pose for some of you. They must be allowed to return to their lands, for exceptions cannot be made. Moreover, they are my kin on my mother´s side, and I will not be their enemy. But they will not be allowed to rule in the Andustar, or to be part of this Council."

The murmurations returned, but for the first time Inziladûn could perceive surprise, even shock, in the faces of Gimilkhâd, the governor and the merchants.

"Will you hold to your word in this?" his brother asked, after a few exchanged glances. Lord Zakarbal stood up in indignation.

"How dare you talk to the King in this strain?"

Gimilkhâd´s mouth opened as if to reply, but the merchant of Gadir touched his arm in a calming gesture. As he looked around him, he became aware of the disapproval in the eyes of the others, and looked down sullenly. Inziladûn breathed in relief.

"Are there any other objections?" he asked, letting his glance trail over the other Council members. One of them did not turn away.

"My lord King," said the High Priest of Melkor, laboriously gathering the folds of his purple cloak over his lap. Inziladûn, who had remarked his long silence, nodded and waited for the attack. "The Year of Renewal is of great concern for the gods of Númenor."

"It is."

"This will require great expenses from the Sceptre and the Great Temples. On the greatest ocassions, a sacrifice of a hundred bulls is called for, carried in attendance of the King and Council and with the highest solemnity." For a moment, the old man´s eyes narrowed, and his look became probing. "We request the King´s help in these matters."

Inziladûn noticed again that particular silence that had fallen over the Council when he spoke of the Lord of Andúnië. Everybody was waiting for his reaction to this. It would be repeated, dissected, torn apart and analyzed in corridor whispers, and heated after-dinner debates.

And he, he thought in grim purpose, would provide them with plenty to talk about.

"You will have it, Your Holiness."

Zakarbal stared at him incredulously.

 

* * * * *

 

There were two fountains in the garden beyond the gallery. One of them stood at its centre, and there a jet of water flowed from a sculpted mermaid´s lavish mane. It ran through an open stone channel and filled a basin where water-lilies floated lazily; at its lower end the water was freed again through the fangs of a sea-dragon and gurgled as it was seeped down a hole to fill the reservoirs of the Palace. Inziladûn had once studied the complicated system through which water would oscillate between the upper and lower levels of the Palace, and always come back, renewed, to fill the gap it had left. Maharbal, his old tutor from Umbar, had compared it with the oscillation of the waters of the earth, which all flowed from the same pit and were fated to return to it in a neverending circle. The Palace had been built as an image of the world, and in imitation of its laws, so a ruler could see them and understand them. _Prideful vanity,_ he had thought years later, _that led the King of Númenor to believe that he could decipher all the secrets of the Creation and replicate them by the hand of Men._

Once, he remembered, he had shared his opinion with Maharbal, who stared back at him gravely. Inziladûn had thought for a moment that the old man disapproved, but after a while the frown disappeared from the dark, weather-beaten forehead, leaving nothing but a strange wistfulness in its wake. _Vanity is what led the King of Númenor to believe that he could know Númenor without setting foot outside the Palace,_ he had said. _And vanity is what leads the Númenoreans to believe that they can know the world without setting foot outside Númenor._

This had been many years after Inziladûn outgrew his lessons, and Maharbal had been nearing the end of his days. At the time, Inziladûn had already shared many confidences with him, dangerous secrets and discoveries that he could not keep locked within his chest for fear that it would burst, but it was the first time that Maharbal shed his mantle of indulgent wisdom and paid him back in kind. Inziladûn had been surprised, and for a moment, behind the torn veil of the unshakeable sage, he had glimpsed the bitterness of this Umbarian of mixed parentage.

The subject had not been pursued further, but Inziladûn had thought about it for a long time, even after Maharbal had left the world. For he knew about mixed parentage, and he had never before considered that the old man could have understood his feelings, or felt drawn to him for that reason. Now, standing again on the spot where the falling waters drowned the echoes of compromising conversations, his eyes fixed on the sea-dragon´s large mouth as the excited voice of Lord Zakarbal filled his ears, the remembrances brought a painful shudder that he hid behind his purple cloak.

"My lord, they did not only extract from you a pledge to act against your allies, your own mother´s kin, but emboldened with that they made you promise to sacrifice in their altars! How could you countenance and bow to their unbridled arrogance? They have piled heap upon heap of gold, which they stole from the rightful lords of Númenor, and won the hearts of the people through superstition and false promises. Will you let them take what is due the King, too? Will you let them rule the Council and steal your Sceptre?"

""They" are not the same people", he answered mechanically. "There are the merchants and there are the governors and there are the priests."

"But they all lick your brother´s heels!"

"Or he licks theirs." Inziladûn´s brow furrowed wistfully. Behind the mermaid fountain, Zimraphel was playing a game of matching shells with two other women; she looked happy today. "The Council wields great power, and I cannot force them to accept changes that threaten their privileges without offering anything in return. I will not put them against me from the first year of my reign."

"The Council does not rule! It only advises", his brother-in-law replied with vehemence. "That is how it has always been."

"And yet it is not possible to rule _without_ the Council. That is how it has always been, too." He was growing a little impatient, and his voice came out with a slight edge. _How could Zakarbal not understand?_ He had been in the Council for years, unlike Inziladûn, who had not set foot in it since his brief foray as his father´s secretary. "Remember its history. Kings who have faced opposition have always taken a great interest in reforming the Council and opening it to their allies. They have tried to control it, and this is a matter of uttermost importance, for it is vital for them that they can rule with its support."

He did remember the history of the Council, having studied it quite thoroughly. Much had changed since it had been known as the Council of the Six, and only the five great landholders of the time -those who ruled the peripheral territories that lay beyond the Land of the King- together with the heir to the Sceptre were allowed to sit on it. The privilege of being a councilman was passed from father to son for generation after generation, until their lineages were too old and proud to be suffered by the strongwilled later kings.

But it hadn´t been until Ar-Adunakhôr that the opportunity to remove this opposition had arisen, and they had offered it to the King themselves when they rose in support of Alissha. After the war, the lineage of Hyarrostar was broken, and the lords of Andúnië exiled to the East and disposessed. Their territories were given to men of no ancestry, loyal to the King alone, who had been allowed to gain seats at the Council as Governor of Sor and High Priest of the Forbidden Bay. The High Priest of Melkor was also invited to join the Council, and this none dared oppose, so great had the influence of the Great God become by that time. His seat was taken from Ar-Adunakhôr´s own heir, who had died in exile on the mainland some years later. The Lord of the West, like so many of his descendants, had never been inclined to trust his own family.

Adunakhôr had thus balanced the three seats of the landholders with three of his own making, who would favour his interests, but he had been careful not to alter their number and, with it, the appearance of tradition. His sucessor Ar-Zimrathôn, however, who had to contend with the growing pride of the surviving landholders, for whom the downfall of their allies in the war and the fear for their own lives was but a distant memory, had foregone that concern, adding two seats for courtiers to break the balance. In Ar-Sakalthôr´s time the Lord of Andúnië came back for a while, and since there was no chair to spare they made it the Council of the Nine. Eventually, Ar-Gimilzôr had banished Lord Valandil and given his place to his son Gimilkhâd, as Inziladûn was "the heir and had no need to be in the Council, who were advisors to the realm". In a move that had garnered more discontent than any of the other changes ever made, he also opened the Council to the Merchant Princes, giving them three seats. He seemed determined to leave things as difficult as possible for his son, and brooked no opposition, going as far as to marry his own son to a merchant´s daughter to legitimate the manouevre. Inziladûn had found that he had to contend with them quite as bitterly as with the priests and the men that held the lands taken from his kin in the past, and though he was King, he was, for the first time since his great-great-grandsire, outnumbered. Only a deep alliance with the three landholders and a tenuous one with the courtiers had allowed him to keep his footing, and in such circumstances, trying to push his will through at the expense of the interests of the rest would have been madness.

"The Lord of Andúnië and his family, who were twice branded as traitors, will be able to return to their homes, and so will their people. They can recover their lands and rule them as before, as long as they pay tribute and defer to the Cave, who holds sway over the region."

"That is an insult", Zakarbal hissed. As a landholder from an ancient family, he probably felt the indignity of kneeling to an appointee as keenly as if it had been inflicted upon himself.

"I would rather have people and means without honour than being honoured in the realm while having none of those", Inziladûn retorted, remembering the travesty of friendship that Gimilzôr had offered them in the years of Sakalthôr´s reign. He recalled Andúnië as it had been back then, a deserted harbour and a family walking through empty halls full of ghosts. "They will have plenty of chances to prove their loyalty in the future. And in any case it is a better fate than being prisoners of the Merchant Princes."

"And what of the sacrifices to Melkor? "Zakarbal´s displeasure was not so easily quenched. "Is that the message that you want to send to the Council and the commoners? That you will bow to the Dark Lord?"

With the zeal of the new believer, the Lord of Sorontil had embraced the teachings of the Valar and abandoned the old worship of his family. It was all Inziladûn had been able to do to prevent his enthusiastic brother-in-law from getting in trouble with the Sceptre and with his own people in the last years.

"The people worship Melkor. They will still worship Melkor if the King tells them not to, even if that were possible, because their hearts are turned towards him", Inziladûn explained. Zimraphel raised her eyes from the scattered shells; as the sun kissed her face he was reminded with a sharp pang of how much she ressembled his mother. "But the Valar and Melkor have something in common."

Zakarbal looked disgusted.

"Something in common? What could the Lords of the West have in common with that... filthy demon of darkness?"

"That they are all the children of Eru." Silence followed those words, broken only by the sound of running water and the voices of the women in the distance. "All who honour the Valar and all that worship Melkor alike acknowledge him as Creator. That is why the worship of Eru in the Meneltarma and the Year of Renewal will become a link to join the people of Númenor and make them come together in the truest and holiest of beliefs." His voice became vibrant, as frustration was forced out from his chest. "And this they approved, without debate, without opposition, all in exchange for a few bulls and some gold."

Zakarbal frowned, in a way that Inziladûn was not sure if he understood the real import of this or not. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

"I am sure you know what is best. My lord King."

In the garden, Zimraphel laughed.

 

* * * * *

 

The balcony of Magon´s house oversaw the channel that cut the island of Gadir in half. From that vantage point, one could see boats and painted barges floating heavily down the quiet waters, vendors coming and going through the sidewalks peddling merchandise, and rich citizens performing the ritual of the afternoon walk in their best clothes. Nothing seemed amiss in this strange city, where people kept to their own, outlandish routines as one King fell to darkness and another took the Sceptre at the roots of the Meneltarma. Still, those political developments were not just stories from far away: they affected this small island just as it affected the larger one beyond the Sea. The appearance of calm was but an illusion, which was something he had learned while living in this house, and attending to endless and tedious dinners where deals were made over desserts and lands parceled out and distributed without the help of sword or shield. Things _happened_ here, they only happened in a different way.

"You sure came back quickly", he told the footsteps that advanced towards him through the small but lavishly ornated room. They stopped.

"Our ships are swift like the wind. Not like those war galleys of yours, which have to be kept outside the Bay for fear they will founder."

Pharazôn turned back to meet the smirk in the golden face. Magon-nephew-of-Magon had just barely arrived from his trip across the Sea, and he hadn´t yet taken off his travelling clothes, which exuded a faint tang of salt.

"I thought you might have had to flee Númenor", Pharazôn joked. The other man did not laugh.

"Not yet." He sat down with relish, as if he had been on his feet for days, and called for wine. A young woman, her skin dark like those of the Umbarians, tiptoed in with a jar and two cups.

"You do not look happy", the Númenorean prince started, pouring his cup before anybody could do it for him and draining it in one go. "What did my uncle say?"

"Oh, many things. He wants to begin his reign with plenty of reforms, processions and sacrifices." The merchant took a careful sip through his painted lips, looking thoughtfully ahead. "He will also recall all the Andúnië exiles."

"What?" Pharazôn almost let his empty cup fall on the lacquered table. "How?"

"Year of Renewal. The past does not matter anymore, only our purity before the Creator. "Magon shrugged. "Your father was beside himself when I left him. He said that those traitors couldn´t be allowed to recover their lands, but we are more worried about them recovering their ships."

"Surely they can´t compete with you on that department!"

Pharazôn tried to pick up the jar again, but the Gadirite beat him to it.

"Hundreds of years ago, when Andúnië was at the peak of its power, it was said that if all their ships were to be put on line, they could form a bridge between Númenor and the mainland. It was their fleet that blocked Ar-Adunakhôr´s troops from Umbar and almost delivered the victory to Alissha the Usurper."

"And even then they couldn´t take over. What chance do they have now? If they are clever, they will have learned from their mistakes", Pharazôn shrugged. Magon frowned.

" _That_ was a mistake. Their interest in this area wasn´t. It gave them an enormous wealth in silver and silver steel, and made them the richest landholders in Númenor. Some say they were richer than the Kings themselves."

"Do you mean that they used to have interests here? In the Bay of Gadir?"

"They built settlements along the coast, of which the most important lay at the mouth of the Great River, and made deals with Elves and Dwarves and all kinds of enemies to the Sceptre", Magon explained. "If we allow them to set foot here again, our city will be ruined. So will our associates in Sor, and maybe Sor itself. We must _not_ allow them to rebuild their former strength." His usually suave voice acquired a brief tinge of steel. "Azzibal tells me that Lord Valandil is still hale, but that old age will catch up with him soon, and his heir Númendil is no match for us. But Númendil had a son, which was taken away from them when he was a child. He was a priest for a while, and then it was said that he had taken ship for Middle-Earth, which is the last anybody knows about him. The King is looking for him now, but we must beat him to it."

Pharazôn turned towards the balcony abruptly, wiping his forehead with his fist.

"Do you merchants ever do anything honourably?"

"We must do what is necessary to protect ourselves. Honour is something we will never have in their eyes, since they were born from high and mighty lineages and we weren´t, so we may as well forget about it", Magon replied without batting an eyelash. When he saw that Pharazôn was going to leave the room, however, he put the cup down and stood up. "My lord prince!"

"Now, that´s unusual." Pharazôn stopped in his tracks, forcing himself to swallow his impatience. This man wasn´t the son of Magon the Older, his powerful grandfather, but one of his nephews, and still he had been named after him and inherited his every business to the last coin. Merchants did not understand the rules of inheritance of noble families, choosing nephews, cousins, in-laws or even associates to be their heirs if they showed the greater promise. If this man had been selected over all others to take the late Magon´s place, then he wasn´t someone to fool around with.

"The King has been led to believe that there is unrest in the area", he said, standing up from his own chair and walking towards where Pharazôn stood. "We must not draw his attention towards us."

"Meaning what?" The prince shrugged. "It´s not _unrest_ what I dealt with upstream; I believe the word would be war. The tribes..."

"There is no need to deal with them directly. There is always a neighbour who can do the job for us, if we know how to press him", Magon explained. Pharazôn started to open his mouth, but the Gadirite beat him to it. "You are the greatest general in Númenor, but whenever you make the slightest move the whole world hears about it. We cannot afford to have the King´s eye fixed on us, or he and his friends may find an excuse to interfere in the Bay."

"So you are asking me to be an idle guest in your house." Pharazôn´s eyes narrowed. _How dare they be so ungrateful?_

"You are no mere guest. You are a prince of Númenor! You are welcome to our council, to the meetings of our associates...."

"I am not interested in your manouevres", Pharazôn cut him, this time crossing the threshold without stopping. Behind his back, he could hear his cousin sigh.

"Tell Adherbal that I´m going whoring with him tonight", he said to the first servant he met on the corridor on the way to his quarters.

 

* * * * *

 

"Of course I know someone." The old general nodded, unable to hide his puzzlement as he picked up the branch of grapes offered to him by a woman with red-dyed hair and scant clothes. "All discretion. My own son-in-law. But may I ask why the secrecy?"

Pharazôn shook his head with a grimace. The wine had started getting to his head, but not enough to veil his lucidity.

"The merchants, "he spat. "The King is looking for this man, and if they should learn that I know about his whereabouts they will try to get to him first to curry favour with the Sceptre. I won´t deliver such a prize to them. They may be my mother´s family, but they are ungrateful bastards."

"Aye, so they are." Adherbal scowled. He had not taken very well to the news that Magon did not appreciate their "interference". "Rest assured, my lord, he will be heading for the Middle Havens by tomorrow and those fat peacocks won´t know what hit them."

"Be careful. He must travel alone, and..." Pharazôn frowned, thinking furiously. "Scratch that. He will be taking a crew and going with one of the smaller ships. Tell them that it needs repairing; they don´t have war shipyards in the Bay. Once they find him, put him on the ship and get him to Númenor directly."

"Very well, my lord." Adherbal waved the woman away as she pushed the curtain to deliver more drink. "I wonder why would the King be looking for Hannishtart, though. He is a brave soldier. Maybe the Cave is wanting him back?"

Pharazôn picked a grape and let it burst inside his mouth.

"I´m not sure. I think his grandfather has become an important lord, or something, and they need him back in Sor."

Adherbal nodded, mulling in silence over this surprising news.

 

 

 


	47. Beneath the Trees

 

 

**Beneath the Trees**

 

 

_Stop!_

There were arms grabbing him, clutching at his shoulder with the agony of fear, and yet the voice he had heard was not human like them. It had echoed in his head like the rumble of thunder, like the roar of the waves as they towered before his ship, dripping foam like fire from a dragon´s mouth.

The storm had crept upon them unnoticed, giving them no time to prepare against the onslaught. They had been drifting peacefully over a blue plain, when suddenly the blue had shattered into many shards, each of them pulling their boat in a different direction. The wind sang shrilly upon their heads, carrying grey thunderclouds that obscured the horizon.

"We must go back!"

Hannishtart shook himself away from the arms and knelt upon the deck, shaking violently. They couldn´t go back, not anymore. There was nothing behind them.

_And there is nothing before you. There never was._

He looked around him, and saw that everything had gone pitch black. The world had shrunk, until there was nothing in it but the tiny vessel which held the four of them. And it was sinking.

With a strong, creaking noise, the planks under his feet burst open.

" _He´s here! What do you want him?"_

Hannishtart smothered a scream. His fall through darkness brusquely landed him in a bed of straw, wrapped in furs that exhaled a strong smell of cold sweat. A pale sun, shrouded in mist, rose behind the bars of a window, and someone was knocking at the door.

"What is it?" his voice inquired, his mind still trapped in the horror of his dream. He kicked the furs away, and his body felt the brief agony of the cold, until warm limbs pressed against his back.

"We have to meet with Rhuga. There has been a situation with those cursed barbarians", they replied from the other side of the door. He nodded, willing the last residual traces of fear to disappear from his mind.

"I am coming!"

The warm limbs moved away from his back, but this time he welcomed the chill. There was nothing like the autumn dawn of the North to bring a man back to his senses.

"You slept deep. They made big noise."

Hannishtart turned towards the woman who had left the bed, just in time to catch the sock that she tossed in his direction. She was collecting the clothes that lay scattered here and there, stark naked. Her dishevelled mane of hair, which was the colour of fresh straw, wiped the floor as she knelt to pick up something that had fallen under the bed.

_Cold? What cold?_ he knew she would ask, if he marvelled at her ability to stay completely unaffected by what made a strong man like him shiver.  _It´s no cold here. Cold is up North where I was born, and warriors ride over frozen rivers without the need for a bridge. That is cold._ And then she would laugh, and he would be left to wonder if she was mocking him.

He dressed swiftly, putting on layer upon layer of warm clothing while she unhooked a heavy fur cape from the wall and weighed it condescendingly. A heap of covers sprung in the wake of her steps as she passed by the hearth, and a dark face emerged from them.

"W´happened, ´rewegoingsmewhere?" the head mumbled sleepily. Hannishtart smiled.

"You can stay here and help with the cooking. I´ll be back later."

The face looked briefly relieved before he fell asleep again. If Hannishtart could not get used to the cold of the Middle Havens, the boy hated it with a passion. He had been born in Umbar, where winters were warm and summers scorchingly hot.

"Are _they_ having dinner here too?" the woman asked in a pointed tone, putting on a shawl and tying it over her breasts right in front of him. Hannishtart had finished tying his shoes, and as he looked up he had to take a sharp breath. Her white, freckled skin fascinated him as much as it had fascinated countless shiploads of Númenoreans before him. 

"Er... no", he replied, shaking the distraction away as if it had been a bug in his hair.

"Good." she nodded, pleased. He knew that she had noticed him acting like a fool, but did not mind it. "There´s not enough for many people." Turning away, she picked up the sword that rested by the door, and frowned at the renewed knocks that shook it. "Hanisar is coming! Stop hitting my door!"

In all that time, it had been impossible to get her to pronounce his name right. And it was mutual.

"Listen, Ulfin. If this takes too much time I may not be back for dinner either." He tied the scabbard to his waist, and stood at the doorstep. "Take care of Ashad until I return."

She nodded dully, already busy pulling the kettle away from the fire. A sunray pierced through the wall of clouds for a moment, wringing a golden gleam from her hair.

 

* * * * *

 

"What happened?"

There were six men standing behind the door, all of them armed and covered in furs similar to his. Their horses had scattered behind them as they waited, and were grazing at the weeds that grew at the side of the road.

"There has been trouble with the timber workers. Rhuga claims that his men have been attacked by a horde of Northmen, and he is ranting that unless we guarantee their security the terms of our deal will be off", one of them explained to Hannishtart.

"Northmen? There´s been none of those around here since the wars. Are they sure?"

"Of course they won´t be sure, but they will claim it, and use it as an excuse to cause trouble", the Númenorean replied with a significant grimace. At a sign from him, one of the others had walked behind the hut, from where he emerged a minute later with Hannishtart´s horse in tow. Hannishtart grabbed the reins and mounted it in one sweeping motion; everybody followed suit behind him.

The land that surrounded them was very different from Umbar and Númenor. It held an almost otherwordly quality in his eyes, with endless barren hills that glittered with the morning frost. All the area had been covered in forest once, but it had receded many miles upstream because of the Númenorean hunt for timber to build and repair their ships.

What made the landscape really haunting, however, was the sky. Sometimes sunny, often clouded, it was never clear as in the other places of the world. The sun always felt veiled, as if a mist had broken it in pieces and taken the warmth away from its kiss, and its glow gave the land and the people a pale and eerie look.

The main road went side by side with the Agathurush, retracing its meandering course as the Haven by the sea grew smaller and disappared in the distance. It climbed slowly through higher and higher hills full of scattered stones, and broken stumps of what had once been mighty trees. There was no boat coming down the river that day, no barge foundering under the weight of timber sliding with the current towards the haven. Both land and river were ominously empty.

The ghost of a sun was already high up in the sky when they reached the village of the barbarians, and found a throng of men gathered before the gates. They were people of short stock, stronger than the Haradrim and also wilder-looking. In the past they had ambushed and killed Númenoreans in the wilderness, burned their timber and raided their encampments, and all these years later their outlandish paint and long beards still bore witness to their ferocity. Today in particular, the somber look in their eyes made Hannishtart acutely aware that allies could revert to enemies as easily as one could flip a blade.

As they drew closer, there was a murmuration, and someone shouted at them. Hannishtart ignored it, climbing down his horse with perfect dignity.

"I will speak to Rhuga and learn what has happened here."

His eyes sought one of the barbarians, whom he knew to be the brother of their chief. The man swallowed.

"He wants to see you", he said, his forced bravado shrill to the ears. Something _had_ put those people on edge, beyond their usual mistrust of Númenoreans, and this did not help Hannishtart´s feeling of unease. As he followed the barbarian through the crowd, who stepped aside before him like reluctant waves before the keel of a ship, he wondered if things could have such an easy explanation as his men seemed to believe.

_A horde of Northmen..._

If it was true, it was dire news indeed. The tribes of the land had been a nightmare for the Númenoreans and their enterprises during centuries of raids and bloody ambushes. Like the Haradrim, they felt wronged by the Sea-men who had come to cut their forests and settle in their lands, and there was great tenacity in how they had refused to leave the desertic hills that had once been their home to make sure that their enemies would find no peace in them. Beaten over and over, they had just licked their wounds and attacked again.

This situation had come to an unexpected end twenty years ago, when suddenly a new people of fierce warriors with yellow hair had swarmed down the riverbanks, hacking and burning everything in their path. They came from the far North, rode horses, and did not know fear. Overnight, the local tribes had found themselves between two blades, driven relentlessly towards the territory of their ancestral enemies by the spears of their new ones. The old Commander of the Middle Havens, who had immediately seen the benefit of this situation, had agreed to take them all in. Then he holed up in the coastal settlements, well-protected by a fleet that brought regular supplies, and a sea that the Northmen could not penetrate. Before six months had passed, the Northmen were decimated for lack of provisions, and ships full of trained soldiers sailed from Sor and Umbar to prepare for a full-scale offensive. When the time was ripe the Númenoreans launched their attack, and such had been the slaughter that it was said that not a single yellow-haired warrior had been sighted ever since. Only the tales remained, of Northmen who sang in battle, of large Northwomen who killed themselves and their children before falling in the hands of the enemy -and of one girl who was taken before she had the chance to do so.

Ulfin -that was not how her name sounded in truth, but neither the locals nor the Númenoreans had managed better- had been quite young when her people came. Hannishtart had tried to ask her about the reason which had driven them to undertake such a journey, taking their women and their young with them, but that was the point where their usually fluid conversation dissolved into an excruciating jumble of strange words and broken concepts. All Hannishtart had been able to gather is that something ominous had happened, something that forced Ulfin´s people to leave their lands, but she did not know how to put it in words that a Númenorean could understand. She spoke of fire and worms, which reminded Hannishtart of tales he had heard a long time ago, and mountains, and strange people who didn´t seem to belong to any of the races that he knew of. There were some who were human during the day and prowled the woods as beasts by night, and others who lived deep underground and never came out until they turned into stone. Hannishtart had been frustrated enough to accuse her of lying; she had glared at him and refused to speak for the night.

As she had been captured by their new allies, who had been forced to agree to lay down their weapons and start cutting what they had heretofore claimed to be their timber for the benefit of the Númenoreans, they had let the barbarians keep their loot in order not to cause more ripples. She was, however, an object of the deepest fascination for locals and islanders alike, and after a rather ugly trouble arose between her and Rhuga´s main wife, the Númenoreans had been more than glad to take her in. In all these years their patronage had not dwindled, a remarkable circumstance given that she was of the short-lived people of Middle-earth. Hannishtart had been introduced to her as soon as he jumped off the ship two years ago, and soon they had grown quite close. _Because of the boy,_ he had told himself. The boy liked her. They came from the opposite ends of the world and still he was fonder of the furs in the floor of her cottage than he was of any Númenorean blankets woven across the Sea.

"This way", his guide announced, as if he had never been there before. Hannishtart blinked to accustom his eyes to the darkness of the thatched cottage. It would not do to look disoriented once he was facing them.

Rhuga sat on a high chair, looking markedly down on him. His grey beard almost reached his belly, and his eyes were small and proud. Hannishtart had been warned hundreds of times not to give in to a barbarian, whatever his rank or the circumstances, so he did not bow.

"Greetings, chief Rhuga. I was told that there have been incidents with the workers," he began, getting quickly to the point. "I came here to be informed."

Those barbarians usually had two expressions when dealing with Númenoreans: fear and distaste. Rhuga´s face was brimming with the second now; though there was also something beneath, the same anxiety he had felt in the people outside. He spoke words in his language, which one of his men translated for Hannishtart´s benefit.

"See for yourself." Everybody´s gaze turned to the floor at his right, and as he followed them he realized that a large bundle of cloth was lying there, as if covering something. Even as he began opening his mouth again, two of Rhuga´s men knelt around the bundle and jerked the cloth away. Hannishtart could feel the breath of his companions, who had entered the building behind him, get caught in their throat at the same time as his.

One of the corpses had had both head and arms hacked off. The other had been cut in two by a very strong blow; the rictus of pain was somehow similar to a sinister lopsided grin. Blood had congealed over their clothes and skin, acquiring an almost black tinge and exuding an acrid smell that reached his nostrils in waves as the cover was lifted. He fought the urge to cover it.

"This wounds are known. Northmen did it."

"And where are those Northmen now?" a man of the Númenorean party asked, hiding his repugnance by arching an eyebrow. "From what I have heard of the past wars, stealth was not among their strengths."

"They came by night, swift in their large beasts. Up there, upstream." Rhuga´s arm pointed vaguely North, towards the river and the cutting areas. "Our people were sleeping, and they were all killed. No survivors."

"Then how...?" Hannishtart cut his companion with a sharp motion of his hand, and turned towards the old man in his chair.

"Guide me to the place. I want to examine it."

This time, Rhuga did not pretend that he hadn´t understood him. Before the intepreter could speak, he had already started to deliver his answer. Around them, a flurry of excited whispers arose.

"We don´t need examination. We need Númenorans to kill Northerners that kill our people."

"If you need us to get rid of your enemies, you will have to ask in a different tone", Hannishtart spoke forcefully now, though in his heart he was worried. Those people had been known to be quite cunning in the past. _Could they be up to something?_ "I will not risk anybody´s life by acting rashly."

"We will not work until they are gone", Rhuga replied. "No timber. No ships."

"That is no good. You have to choose." Hannishtart looked directly into the old man´s eyes, and it soothed him just briefly that he saw him balk. "Who is your enemy, the Northerners or the Númenoreans? You can´t be an enemy to both." When neither he nor the interpreter made a reply, he shrugged. "Think about it."

The barbarians liked effect. They chose their chiefs among people who had mastered the ability to yell threats and glare at the others afterwards, and Hannishtart could perceive that he had hit the mark. Taking advantage of it, as their tempers were also volatile enough, he turned to the interpreter.

"I need two guides. Food, too." _And the guides will taste it first,_ he thought as he saw a familiar, gaudily-dressed woman stand up at a nod from Rhuga and head towards the back door. "Zakarbal."

"Yes?" The young man who had argued against the barbarian logic turned towards him.

"Ride back to the Havens and tell the Commander that we need reinforcements. Go as quick as you can."

Zakarbal bowed, and strode away from the darkness of the building.

 

* * * * *

 

The guides offered to them were both young men. Though on foot, they were able to keep the speed of the horses, and did not seem tired even after trekking several miles upstream. Hannishtart remembered stories of those tribesmen as they had been before they joined hands with Númenor; how their swift and silent deployments had been impossible to trace until their axes were upon them. He hoped he had not been wrong to leave without waiting for the reinforcements.

"This way", one of them called in heavily accented Adûnaic. They had just left the desert behind and entered the Forest; an almost impenetrable mass of trees that made the islanders feel even more uneasy than they already were. Here, the barbarians seemed to walk at ease, choosing their path without a second thought and only stopping, now and then, to wait for them. It might have been Hannishtart´s imagination, but in this twilight they looked different, dangerous like shadows that were cast by no owner and powerful like warriors in their territory. For this was their territory, more than the cottages beside the river that they now called home.

That was why it came as a relief, mingled with shock, when the trees suddenly gave way to a clearing, littered with stumps that exhibited the marks of the saw like gaping wounds on flesh. When the weak sunlight fell upon them, some of Hannishtart´s companions muttered a prayer of thanks to the Lord of Battles, and the grip on the reins was eased as their companions shrunk back into their familiar clumsy and short figures. Suddenly, in a brief flash of insight that burst into his mind as the light into his eyes, the Númenorean warrior felt he understood, both his people´s strong will to cut all the trees that grew like a dark menace around their own settlements and the rage of the men who were made to tear their home and their strength apart with their own hands.

Those were dangerous feelings, and distracting, so he dismissed them with a shake of his head.

"Is this the place?" he asked. Beyond the clearing the Agathurush was full of barges, some empty and some already loaded with timber, but all of them tied to posts. Three wooden cabins stood behind them, and as their horses trotted towards them they had to wade through logs that had been half-chopped or just dropped there to await their turn.

"Did everybody flee after it happened?"

"No flee." One of the guides shook his head. "All dead."

They seemed to be growing shifty as they trudged on through the open space towards the river and the cabins. Hannishtart, who had been distracted by his thoughts, fell back on his guard. Starting with that fateful day when he arrived to Umbar many years ago, a young man in age and experience, he had been ambushed and trapped more times than he could count.

"Why do you stop?" one of his men barked at the barbarians. They had frozen in place after jumping over a log pile, right in front of the first cabin´s broken door, and seemed to be whispering among themselves. When they realized that the Númenoreans were right behind, they fell silent at once.

"Can be more of them", one of them explained.

"More Northerners, " the other supplied.

Hannishtart had heard enough.

"Northerners do not ambush. We would have heard them come from leagues away." He dismounted and stared both of them down, threateningly. "Why do you insist so much on them being behind this?"

"That´s right." The other soldiers followed his example, and fell behind him. "It is your people who have sneaked on us and stabbed us in the back since we ever set foot on Middle-earth, so how do we know it´s not some conspiracy of yours?"

"No conspiracy. _Please_." One of the guides was really young. "See."

Shaking away his reluctance, he advanced slowly towards the door and crept inside. Hannishtart prevented the other barbarian from following him with a sharp gesture of his hand.

"You can follow me. There are nobody. Only dead," the young man called, almost beseechingly. He sounded unnerved.

Hannishtart nodded. His men and the barbarian walked with him towards the door.

The first thing that struck him was the smell he had perceived down at Rhuga´s house, when the corpses were exhibited before him. Here it was stronger, and also more insidious, and he almost reeled at the impact. One of the Númenoreans grumbled a curse.

"What in the name of the Wolf..."

There was some light coming from the door, and from a window on the opposite side of the building. By its dim gleam, they could see that the ground was littered with corpses, every one of them as gruesome as those that had been brought to the village downstream. The air was buzzing with flies, worrying at their mouths and eyes.

The barbarian who had entered first was shivering. The other said something to him in their language, something sharp that sounded like a recrimination, and he tensed.

Mastering his repugnance, Hannishtart approached the corpses that lay closest, and started examining them. Various parts of their bodies had been hacked off, or sported large gashes through which they must have lost their blood. The tale they told was of axes, and a quick, frantic struggle after being caught by surprise.

"There", one of his men whispered, pointing at a corner. A man appeared to be sitting there, with his back against the wall; as he looked closer, Hannishtart realized that the body had been pinned in that position by an arrow that pierced its flank and then embedded itself on the wood. He walked over six corpses to kneel at its side.

The arrow was black and feathered. He grabbed the shaft and pulled with all his strength, until it wrenched free first with a shrill, then with a squelching sound. Some blood oozed from the re-opened wound as the corpse hit the floor.

Hannishtart brought the point to his nose, and sniffed. Beyond the scent of caked blood, there was another -one that he knew very well.

"Orc poison", he spoke to the silence.

"You liars!" There was the sound of running, and a struggle, and then a sharp noise as the angry Númenorean pushed the barbarian against the wall. His hand closed around his neck. "You knew all along! You probably are in league with them, you...!"

"Let him go." Hannishtart turned back sharply. His mind was still reeling from the implications, but he could not afford to look confused in front of the others. _They had not wanted them to come here. They must have known they would see this._

But why?

"Why didn´t your leader want us to know about the Orcs?" he asked the young man, who was on his knees gasping for breath. Belatedly, he realized that the other had fled.

"Because they are in league with them!" the Númenorean who had held him a moment ago spat in anger. The barbarian shook his head, pointing at the corpses with his chin.

"No... league. No friends. Look."

Hannishtart knew where both his defiance and the other man´s suspicious attitude came from. He had heard the stories about tribesmen of the distant past, who left their land with the warriors of the night and never returned. Legends said that their skin had darkened until they became like them, but also that now and then a tribe warrior had killed an enemy that looked strangely like one of their own. The Númenoreans, who already saw this dark and elusive people as little better than Orcs, and who had dealt with the alliance between Haradric tribes and the folk of Mordor down the South, had not found this story hard to believe. There had been some interbreeding in the past, probably.

"You want to direct our attention elsewhere because we would not help you fight the Orcs." It was a statement, more than a question. "If it was the Northmen, we would have to go up in arms and protect this site because it was in the treaty."

The young barbarian seemed uncomfortable. He spoke without meeting his eyes.

"I...I do not know. I only... guide."

_That was the truth, then._

"Once we were here with all our men, Rhuga hoped that we would be forced to finish the work even after we noticed that we had been deceived", Hannishtart continued.

"I knew we could not trust this lying Orc spawn!"

"No." For the first time, his glance was met with a defiant glare. The barbarian was frowning at him. "Orcs kill you. Orcs kill us. Night warriors hate us all. But we will not beg. That´s why."

"That´s why what?"

"That´s why they said it was the Northerners", Hannishtart finished for him. "They will not beg for protection." He looked beyond the belligerant young man, at the corpses that rotted around them. Orcs were not like Men, like any kind of Men, or so he had been taught long ago, in another life beyond the Sea. And yet, here in this shadow world, he had often seen them do the same things.

_The Númenorean men, too._

"We will wait for the reinforcements outside" he determined. "I can´t eat here, there are too many flies."

"Maybe we should ride to meet them instead. There´s no point in remaining here", somebody suggested as he crossed the threshold, hungry for fresh air.

"Someone has been killing people here, and interferring with business", he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Whoever it is, I will have them."

"But..."

"I´ve heard it wasn´t pleasant when the forest tribes were our enemies." He opened the pack that hung from the horse´s flank, and extracted the bag of food the woman had given him. Her hands had been almost as large as his, they said she had drowned Ulfin´s baby with them."We won´t convince Orcs to ally with us, but with this people it has been working for the last twenty years. By the Eternal King, how is one supposed to eat _this_?"

Inside the bag was a bowl of meat, raw and finely minced with herbs, and no tool to pick it up. Not even bread. Still wearing a stormy frown, the man who had argued with him made a disgusted noise and turned away.

"Put it on leaves, and roll them", the barbarian told him. Hannishtart realized that there was a roll of long, tender green leaves at the bottom of the bag, and sat on a log to extricate it out. _Tree people, they called themselves._

"Ah. Those."

The young man was staring at the distance, and did not reply. Still, as Hannishtart was wolfing down his food, he could surprise him stealing strange glances in his direction. It was only a moment until he realized it and looked away.

"What meat is this?" he asked, to break the uncomfortableness.

"Rat meat." The young man´s voice could not hide a trace of smugness as he said this. Hannishtart cursed to himself.

"It´s nice. You should have some, too. So it won´t go to waste, " he added, looking at the others, who were sharing some mouldy biscuits and markedly ignoring the barbarian food. The strange glance came back, with something that seemed like confusion.

"Are you going to fight Orcs?" the young man finally asked. Hannishtart nodded.

"Yes."

Silence.

"Is there anything else you have been hiding on Rhuga´s orders?"

There was more silence for a while, only broken by the whispers of the other soldiers. Some were not happy with him, he was sure.

Finally, the barbarian spoke.

"It started three moons ago. They come at night, and they come to kill. Men fight bravely, but warriors of the night come again. And again. And again."

"So this has been happening for a while." _The Commander had been complaining of the low level of production._ "But this time was different."

The young man nodded.

"Too many of them. There was nothing we could do." _We?_ "I had idea, of jumping inside barge and float downstream like logs."

"You were there?" Hannishtart was surprised. "Rhuga said there were no survivors."

_Rhuga lied. Again._ And of course he wasn´t going to hear that from this man.

"Come over here." The Númenórean put the bowl aside, and sat on the ground, pointing to a spot across him. After some surprised reluctance, his companion followed his example, watching as his fingers draw a neat square next to a winding line. "This is the river. This is the cabin. Now, can you explain exactly what happened?"

The young barbarian seemed torn. He looked at the figures as if he did not understand, then dragged his hand through the earth, as if fascinated by the lines that his fingers drew on it. His muscles were in tension, like those of a trapped deer.

"I... I was here", he finally stammered, pointing at the Southern wall of the square. His voice came out like a hiss, and Hannishtart was glad that the other barbarian was not there anymore "As guard. I was alone. Sleepy. And then... I heard..."

Behind them there was a small commotion. Three of the soldiers stood up, one of them pointing at the horizon while another muttered " _At last!!"_ Hannishtart narrowed his eyes against the wind to take in the sight of the Númenorean host riding upstream.

"We have time. What happened then?" he asked the young man,whose misgivings had returned with a vengeance. Slowly, he set himself to coax him to look at the map again. "We are going to fight them. We could use your help. What happened then?"

The barbarian bit his lip.

"Then... they were here."

 

* * * * *

 

They were barely three hundred men, raised and equipped at short notice. As they trudged along the riverbank Hannishtart could make out their leader, a thin and severe man by the name of Barekbal who acted as vice-commander of the garrison at the Havens. He advanced at the head of the column, riding a bay horse, and motioned to him from the distance. Hannishtart stood up to receive him.

"Now what on the name of the Lord of Battles has been going on here?" Barekbal tugged at the reins until the horse was still; then fixed him with a grave look. "I trust you would not raise an army out of a whim."

Hannishtart considered this new development carefully. The arrival of this man meant that the decisions to be made would no longer be in his hands. Given what he had chosen as the best course just a while ago, and what he had been able to get out of the young barbarian in the meantime, this could easily lead to disaster.

"There has been... there has been great slaughter up here." He chose his words carefully. "Whoever did this, they were many, and strong."

"There were Orc arrows in there", one of his men informed, coming forwards. Hannishtart bit back a sigh.

"So it wasn´t the Northerners." Barekbal did not look neither angry nor relieved. "I wondered."

"As I said, whoever did this came in great numbers," he repeated in a louder voice, before anyone else could interfere. "I have been gathering information, and I think that their aim was not just raiding or pillaging. This is a cunning enemy, gathering and deploying their forces in preparation for a farther-reaching strike."

Barekbal arched an eyebrow.

"And how do you know that? Did you have the chance to chat with their general?"

"No. But they were very careful not to leave anyone alive. And they took nothing. They did not even stay to burn the timber." He levelled his incredulous superior with a frown. "This is not normal Orc behaviour. They are either allied with another enemy or following someone´s orders."

"Allied with another enemy, you say?" Barekbal´s small eyes fell on the young man who had been talking to Hannishtart until the Númenoreans came, and who was still sitting under the log, tracing lines in the dust with his finger. "Such as an enemy who showed every interest in the world in luring us here, and who lied to us about the threat we were facing?"

"That would make no sense, Lord Vice-Commander." Hannishtart protested. "They have suffered brutal casualties."

"Orcs tend not to respect agreements when there are humans to kill." Barekbal snorted, not amused. "That´s why they don´t make very good allies."

This entire train of thought was so absurd, and at the same time so predictable, that Hannishtart felt a momentary urge to scream in frustration. The irony of the fact that the barbarians had the better measure of them than they had of the barbarians was not lost on him.

"There were no survivors. The people who came up here to see what happened were distracted by fear. They would attribute this disaster to the fiercest enemy they could recall to have faced. And in any case" Hannishtart pointed North with his chin, "this is a serious threat that we should face, lest we want it at our doorsteps next."

"I will see about that. They still lied, and we must discover with what intent." The tone of the Vice-Commander´s voice was discouraging of any further argument. "By the way, Hannishtart. You are required to go back at once."

Hannishtart froze.

"I have been trying my best to do my duty since I was summoned", he protested. "I only ask for an opportunity to see it through."

"You did not understand me." Barekbal´s eyes narrowed. "You are immediately required to go back to _Númenor._ "

For a while Hannishtart merely stood there, wondering if the humourless man was trying to pull a joke on him. A swarm of mad ideas took his mind by the storm, together with a fear he had almost forgotten he had felt once, before all these long years of living in the margins.

"What...?" he began, but his voice sounded as if it had come from a great distance, and he was not sure that Berekbal had heard it. "Who...?"

"A ship came in this morning. They came from the Bay of Gadir, with orders to bring you to Sor." You must pack your things and report to the Commander in the Havens as quickly as possible." The man´s forehead creased in a frown. "Your role in this mission is over now."

A moment ago, Hannishtart would have protested, asked for a little more time and worried about how the situation could escalate into a conflict with the local tribes if his advice was disregarded. But like his voice, all this suddenly seemed very distant now. Blood pounded in his ears.

"Who wants me in Sor?" he asked, trying to school his features into not showing his inner turmoil.

Barekbal looked at him. For a moment, Hannishtart could see something strange in his eyes, but he did not know what it was.

"The King."

 

* * * * *

 

The sky was clouding as Hannishtart galloped down the riverbank and through the coils of the hillroad towards the coast, as swiftly as if a horde of Northerners was chasing him.

An attack by the yellow-haired savages had always been a possibility in this place, and those who claimed that they had known it was not them would lie, if they said that it had not crossed their mind even once. Now, they knew that Orcs were gathering their forces under the command of someone who had the ability to strategize, something that had not happened this far North except on the dusty scrolls of the Great Temples. The natives, themselves, were a fierce people on their own right, and a mere twenty years ago fathers still taught their sons how to creep behind their Númenorean enemies and cut their throats. Since he had landed on the Middle Havens, Hannishtart had awoken every morning ready to deal with these dangers, and before that he had dealt with many others, alliances of Orcs and Southrons sealed by their common hatred of Númenor, armies bred in Mordor to attack the Bay and secure its riches, villagers who turned out to be deadly fighters ready to catch him in an unguarded moment, merciless sieges and gigantic monsters who could trample a man with only one of their oversized legs. He had been horrified, he had been scared and he had been nauseated, and yet none of those emotions could compare with the old fear, which had remained deeply buried inside his chest since so many years ago that it had almost seemed gone.

Now it was back, racking his body with sharp pangs that alternated with the no less painful bouts of remembrance. For all these years, he had forgotten that the feelings connected to his homeland could be as bright and intense as the colours of its landscape, when compared with the veiled skies and foggy horizons that surrounded him now.

Once, he had been a prisoner in a merchant house, chasing the imaginary enemies of his mother´s tales through busy corridors and narrow stairs. He had been taken before the King in an endless hall of obsidian, a terrifying man with black and frozen eyes who wanted him dead though he did not know why. He had buried his head in the chest of a woman who shook, her fingers cold and clammy against his back after the unknown men fled from his chambers. His face had been pressed against the fumes of an altar of fire until he thought he was burning, but a man saved him. He had served Melkor, he had served Ashtarte-Uinen, he had thought that any day, at any moment, the king with the frozen eyes could change his mind and kill him, or murder his son. He was the offspring of traitors, of people who spoke strange languages and spoke of the Elves as if they were friends, and good, and wise. Through all these years he had forgotten their tales, but he had remembered their faces, and they had been kind and loving.

_They had named him Amandil, in their tongue._

News of the death of the King and the sucession had not reached this Northern outpost until a month after it happened. He remembered feeling happy for the death of Ar-Gimilzôr, but the hopes he may have harboured in much earlier days, of the world turning upside-down and reuniting with his family and becoming a great lord had died long ago. He had chosen to live in the fringes, away from the sight and reach of the powers of the Island, and there he would remain until the end of his days. Nobody would be able to trace his son back to him, which would be a good thing for the boy and his mother, and his family would never know that he had betrayed them and sworn allegiance to the gods of their enemies and those who fought for them. This certainty had seeped through his very bones year after year, until it became the only thing he could see in the horizon.

And now, this certainty had blown to pieces.

What could the new king want of him? How could he have known where he was, who he was? Was he like his father, rooting the members of his family away from their hiding places to asssuage his fears? And if so... if he had found him, even here, wouldn´t he have found his son, who lived under his very nose in Armenelos? The idea frightened him more than facing a swarm of Orcs in a dark wood.

Reeling, he dismounted and walked away from his horse. His course had steered automatically towards Ulfin´s cottage, and it was there that he had arrived while he was too absorbed in his thoughts to pay attention. As he made it to the doorstep, he could hear voices coming from the inside, and stopped to peer through the window.

Ulfin and Ashad were sitting next to the fireside. She had bent over a pot, which she stirred with a large iron spoon while her other hand stretched to pick up something that he was giving to her. All of a sudden, it struck Hannishtart that he had inadvertently been building a family here, a family like the one he had left behind.

Ulfin raised her gaze from her cooking, and leaned towards the boy to tell him something. Their foreheads almost touched, Southern dark against Northern white, as if they were sharing a secret. The first raindrops pattered against the thatched roof and slid down the side of Hannishtart´s face.

_She was not his wife._ And he was not his son, not even hers.

Everything in this land, the fear, the love, had been false, a mere semblance of something that existed somewhere else.

The skies were dark with the colour of storm.

 

* * * * *

 

The sound of the door creaking open made them jerk apart from each other. Then she stood up, seeming strangely relieved to see him.

"I greet you back", she said. Behind her, Ashad hurried to pick up the spoon that she had discarded, and continued stirring without looking up. "A sea-man came earlier, a new one, and gave me something for you."

_So they had been here, too._ "What is it?"

Ulfin walked towards the darker back of the cottage, as the raindrops started hitting louder and quicker. While she rummaged there, Hannishtart turned his attention to Ashad, who had not looked at him yet. It dawned in his mind that maybe they knew.

"Did you have a good day?"

"...yes." The monotonous, almost inaudible tone contrasted sharply with the renewed vigour of the stirring. At that moment, Ulfin re-emerged with a small cylindric box in one hand. Hannishtart could recognize it as a Númenorean box for letters, and took it in some trepidation. It had no name or seal on the outside, but as he extracted the roll of paper his eyes widened.

"Who gave it to you and what did he say?" he asked, trying in vain to keep his expression guarded.

"He was tall. Dark eyes and dark hair, like all your people. Clothes smelled of salt", she began. "He said he came from Ga-dir in the South, and he had heard that you stay here for the night. So he gave me letter to make sure you read it and nobody else before you."

"And you read it", he hissed, more to find an outlet for the unbearable tension as he skimmed through the first lines. Absorbed in them, he missed her defensive frown.

"We are worried! And we cannot read all. Too many letters", she spat, as if she found that a cause for censure. Hannishtart´s eyes were starting to blur, but he still managed to decipher Pharazôn´s message.

 

_Your house has been recalled and allowed to return home in the West, and this includes you. The King, however, does not know where you are. He is not as far-seeing as he wants others to believe, but I am. This ship will take you directly to Sor; all the crew is to be trusted. Do not trust anyone else. The merchants of Gadir are out for your blood, and their allies of Umbar and Sor will be only too glad to help them. Something about your ancestors being their rivals in business._

_Destroy this letter as soon as you have read it, and then get into the ship without delay. We will talk about the rest when we meet in the Island._

_Pharazôn_

_(Your family is doing well.)_

 

Hannishtart lowered the letter, taking a deep breath. His head was beginning to turn. So it was Pharazôn who had sent the ship for him. The King seemed to mean no harm, but there were other people who did, as it had always been since he was old enough to remember. It was difficult to decide what enemy was worse; everybody knew that Middle-earth belonged to the merchants, and so did the Númenorean harbour where the ship would be bound.

On the other hand, his family had been recalled. This had to mean that they were not traitors anymore, as they had always claimed. They would be able to go back to their beautiful stone harbour, their green lands and their groves of golden trees, which he had never seen but somehow kept in a corner of his mind, together with other blurred things that he associated with his blurred mother.

He should be happy. However, he did not seem able to muster that emotion anymore, not in a pure, proper way disentangled from the claws of worry and fear and confusion.

Ulfin heaved the pot away from the fire.

"How long since you saw your wife?" she asked, jerking him brusquely away from his thoughts.

"Thirty years", he answered mechanically. Her eyes turned into large wells of grey shock.

"Is she still young? Like... you?"

It occurred to Hannishtart, all of a sudden, that she might not be as young as him anymore. He discarded the thought. It was not the time to be worrying about such things.

"Yes", he replied. She muttered something that sounded like "Elf", and started pouring the stew into the bowls. As he looked at the fire he remembered that he was still holding the letter in his hand, like a child would a toy, and folding it he gave it to the flames. Ashad watched wide-eyed for a while before remembering that he was not supposed to look at him.

_Ashad._ Hannishtart knew now why he had been behaving like this. 

"I would take him", Ulfin spoke conversationally, sitting beside him and looking at the boy as if she had guessed Hannishtart´s train of thought. " _He_ grows fast, doesn´t he? And then he will fish in the river and repair the roof and protect me." He began opening his mouth, but she was faster. "But he doesn´t want to. He wants to go with you."

"But Númenor..." Hannishtart took a deep breath. It did not escape him that the boy was heavily pretending not to hear the conversation as he wolfed down the stew. "Númenor is not a good place for..." _Númenor was a sanctuary._ "It is the sanctuary of the Sea People."

"Many of my people were taken there."

"To be killed." Hannishtart retorted, wishing that this discussion could be posponed, ignored or taken outside. "Oh, there are some barbarians in Númenor who are alive, but they are not... "He sought for an appropriate word for her to understand, and came up with none. "It´s not a good life", he finished simply.

"But he would be with you." Ulfin´s voice became a little fiercer. "Don´t he?"

"That´s not the point!" Hannishtart seethed. The Númenoreans in Middle-earth felt superior to the barbarians, everybody knew that, but none of them could imagine how it was in Númenor itself, where they were few and seen as exotic animals from the mainland. And none of them had ever gone willingly to the island beyond the Great Sea, which was so far from their own world and so different. "You don´t understand."

Ulfin didn´t reply. Ashad, meanwhile, had snuck away at some point of the conversation. Hannishtart wondered if he would be back to say goodbye, or if things were better left as they were for the boy´s own good. He deserved to live with those who grew and aged like him, marry one of their women and have children like him. Hannishtart could do no more good in his life from now on, as unfair as it seemed.

"Please, take care of him. I´ll leave..." He looked around him, and stood up to gather his cloak, his bag, his sword. "All this is yours now. They will give you good money for them."

"You have to enter sanctuary naked?" Ulfin asked curiously. Hannishtart would have laughed, if only he could. Anxiety had tied his gut too much.

"And the horse. You can take the horse, too, for both of you. We ride ships." He swallowed down the last of his stew. "He´ll be fine."

"You never hoped going back." Ulfin put the bowl aside, watching him as if in dawning comprehension. "You thought you will stay here, all your life."

"That´s..." Hannishtart shook his head, as if to dismiss her words, then gave up. _Maybe he had._ Maybe he did not know how to feel about it all, maybe he was too far gone to be able to live in the Island once again. _The sanctuary,_ he thought with a bitter smile.

Maybe it was just a brief confusion, and after the world settled around him, he would regain his clarity. Ulfin was not his wife, Ashad was not his son, and the Middle-havens were not his home. He had just pretended that they were for too long.

"If I was going back to my people, I would be afraid," Ulfin said. "What if I find enemy tribe instead? What if my family is dead? What if they do not know me? And, what if they do not want me because I lay with Sea people and Forest people and drove me away?" Hannishtart turned towards her, and was surprised to see her blue-grey eyes staring at the window, darkened by a strange emotion. "But I still want to go back. I still wish it. This is not home."

Shaken, he realized that her words had mirrored his own unvoiced thoughts of moments ago. He looked at her, as if it was the first time he saw her at all.

"Ulfin..." he began. A knock on the door made the rest die in his lips.

"Coming!" she shouted, struggling to her feet and rushing towards the source of the noise. An unfamiliar man, Númenorean by his looks, stood at the threshold.

"Isn´t he back yet?" he asked, then peered behind the woman and saw the other figure sitting by the hearth. His eyes narrowed. "Lord of Battles! You´re whiling your time with women when there is such need of speed! We are leaving right away."

"This is the man who brought letter", Ulfin explained. Hannishtart stood up.

"I am not whiling my time. I was just having a bite before I went away on a long trip", he said in a steely voice, refusing to feel embarrassed. Ulfin hurried to get his cloak, but he refused it. "I said you could have it."

The newcomer raised an eyebrow.

"You are Hannishtart, aren´t you?" Before he could reply, he waved it away as if it had been a stupid question. "We must be swift."

"I will take my horse, then. "Hannishtart turned to Ulfin, unsure of what was one supposed to say to a woman who had shared your bed and would never do so again. "You can go tomorrow and take it back. Or Ashad could go."

"What horse?" the man asked, surprised.

"My horse is outside." The Númenorean soldier shook his head.

"There are no horses outside."

Hannishtart walked towards the doorstep, and crossed it. It was raining still, as it would be raining the next morning, and the next evening, and the one after that. Once it started to rain in this land, it always lasted long.

His horse had disappeared. He called for it, whistled for it, all in vain.

"We could both ride mine." The man was obviously not forming a very good opinion of him. "The Havens are not far."

As Hannishtart trudged behind his rescuer, shivering and wet and wondering what had happened with the horse, he saw Ulfin standing under the glow of the threshold, gazing at him with the superior look of a woman who knew something else.

 

* * * * *

 

It was wholly dark by the time when they reached the Havens under the drizzle. Hannishtart was not taken to the Commander, but led through the deserted streets towards the place where the ship lay anchored in the harbour. When he asked about it, his companion shrugged under his cloak.

"Orders from the captain. He has arranged it all."

_Of course._ Speed was crucial, and anybody could be an ally of the Merchant Princes, he guessed, but still he wished he could have taken his leave and begged him to reconsider the matter with the Orcs that seemed now a lifetime away, buried in the recesses of a different world. It seemed unlikely that he ever would know the outcome of it: in Númenor, the wars of the mainland were a matter of small importance, and knowledge of what happened beyond the sea quite scarce and inexact. He remembered himself believing, with his friend Pharazôn, that all of Middle-earth was but one great battleground where heroes in shining armour fought and defeated the evil creatures of Mordor.

As they approached the ship, they heard the sounds of turmoil on the docks. Alarmed, his companion unsheathed his sword and stood before him. Hannishtart was not used to being protected, and his impulse was to push him aside to better gauge the situation. To his shock, he heard a familiar voice rising above the shouts and curses of the men who struggled before the prow.

"I said go away, or I´ll throw you into the water! Do you know how to swim, boy?"

"I said he sent me ahead! Lord Hannishtart did! If you don´t let me in, I´ll tell..."

"You´ll tell me?" Hannishtart advanced towards the group, not knowing whether to scream or laugh. _Stupid boy._ "And I suppose you would also tell me about my stolen horse?"

Ashad stopped struggling. Even in this light, anyone could see him blush to the root of his hair. As if on cue, the two men who were holding him let him go.

"I-I wasn´t going to keep it", he mumbled after a while, so quickly that the words came out as an almost undistinguishable jumble.

"Do you know him?" one of the men who had been struggling, clearly a sailor, asked in an ill-tempered voice. Hannishtart was tempted to say no, but then they might throw him into the water for real. The men of the South hated swimming as much as they hated the sea and whatever came from it.

_Why was this one being so stubborn?_

He met the large, pleading eyes for a moment, and then, as his look travelled downwards, he noticed something that had fallen upon the irregular pavement. Leaning towards it, he realized it was Ashad´s few belongings, wrapped on a piece of red cloth that he remembered seeing at Ulfin´s house. It was lying half-open, the clothes strewn upon the floor, and a muddy footprint was upon one of them. He sighed.

_But I do not want to go to Armenelos! I want to stay here! Mother, I want to stay here!_

He resented the memories. Why did they flow into his mind now? He had always suppressed them, first because they brought him pain, and then... then, he guessed he had just forgotten, andgood riddance.

_That boy had not wanted to listen to the Merchant Princes or his mother or be reasonable. He wanted to stay with those that he loved._

"What do we do with him?" his escort since Ulfin´s house asked in a low voice. One of the sailors moved to grab Ashad by the arm again, but the boy didn´t even look at him. He, Hannishtart, was the only person in the world for him now, and he had to wince.

"I did send him. He is coming with me. He might have... misinterpreted the part about the horse, though." Turning away from their shocked glances, he pointed at the ship with his chin. "I thought we were on a hurry?"

It seemed to him a long while before he heard footsteps behind him.


	48. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I´m sorry, but this update is not a sign of an immediate comeback -not yet. This was a chapter where I got really stuck because I didn´t like the ending and I couldn´t make it work. After almost a year, with the benefit of distance and perspective, it suddenly occurred to me that something that didn´t work in so many ways should better be cut entirely. So I cut it, and here is the result.

**Note:** I´m sorry, but this update is not a sign of an immediate comeback -not yet. This was a chapter where I got really stuck because I didn´t like the ending and I couldn´t make it work. After almost a year, with the benefit of distance and perspective, it suddenly occurred to me that something that didn´t work in so many ways should better be cut entirely. So I cut it, and here is the result.

**The Return**

Dusk was speeding from the East. The sky grew darker by the moment, but for a spiral of clouds blazing red in the horizon, there where Hannishtart´s eyes could almost draw the shape of an irregular line of land trying to embrace the sea with two outstretched arms. Far in the distance, a seagull was crying.

"It can´t be far now. Tomorrow we´ll be able to see Sor."

Hannishtart nodded in silence. The sailor stopped behind him, holding a length of coiled rope with both arms and fixing his glance in the same spot that his passenger had been observing for a while.

"I´ve seen others like you", he said after a short, thoughtful silence. "Too many years in the mainland, huh?"

"What do you mean?" Hannishtart hid the unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach and adopted a mask of polite indifference. The other man laughed.

"I met a man in the Havens once. The day before he was going back, he drank with me. He said..." The sailor shook his head. "He said he couldn´t believe that the island was still there where he left it. That sometimes he was afraid he had dreamed it. Could you imagine? Of course, he _was_ piss drunk by then..."

"Well, I am not."

Still, Hannishtart thought, as the feeling in his stomach increased, he had some idea of what the drunk soldier could have been trying to say. Sometimes, words were not enough to draw an accurate picture of one´s feelings, not of one whose life had been so different from that of the people who surrounded him. Númenor, he knew, was still there, and its people went on with their lives in exactly the same manner as they had before his ship left Sor.

_That was what made it seem a dream._

"How long?"

Hannishtart sighed. The man was merely trying to be sympathetic, in his own fashion.

"Thirty years." Somebody had started shouting indoors. _Maybe it had something to do with..._

"That´s a lot of time", the sailor whistled. "I understand it now..."

"Understand what?"

"The boy." Hannishtart froze. "That you would want to bring him with you. Oh, there he is! Getting sick all over the place again, by the looks of it."

As the volume of the shouts increased, a man appeared on deck, with the struggling Ashad in tow. Ignoring the boy´s protests, he threw him against the railing.

"I´ve told you a hundred times, you mongrel! Do you people have sand in your ears? If you are feeling sick, you come up here and throw it into the sea! Into the sea, do you hear? The Goddess help me if I catch you again spewing your filth all over the ship!"

Hannishtart, still reeling from the sailor´s insinuation, needed a moment to collect his wits.

"Oh, leave him be. His kind is afraid of the Sea."

Muttering something that sounded like "his kind don´t belong here then", the man released the boy and left. Ashad immediately slumped down the railing and curled over himself like a frightened animal, just like the day when his village was destroyed.

"He is not my son." Hannishtart declared, in a voice that came out louder than he had expected. _He is not a mongrel._ "His father died in Umbar."

"Oh." The sailor blinked, then shrugged. The coils of rope almost touched the deck.

It should not be his concern, anyway, whether a sailor believed him or not. The frown that creased his brow as he walked towards the boy´s slumped form was not directed at him, though it deepened as he wondered whether this misconception could come back in a more ominous form.

Ashad was not trembling; his limbs, however, were rigid as wood. Hannishtart knelt by his side and laid an arm over his shoulder.

"It is only water. It cannot sink the ship", he lied. _The world had shrunk, until there was nothing in it but the tiny vessel which held the four of them, and it was sinking..._

"The blue is everywhere. It´s under the ship, too, I can feel it", Ashad murmured. "It can swallow anything."

"Tomorrow we will reach land. Firm land."

"It´s not firm land," Ashad shook his head, stubbornly. "The blue is all around it, too."

"Middle-earth is surrounded by the sea as well. Did you know?" Ashad shook his head again. "A ship could sail North from the Havens or Umbar and reach them from the South. They say that Aldarion did it, a famous mariner of old..."

"Could an island sink?" The boy interrupted his explanation as if he hadn´t been listening to a word of it. Hannishtart´s eyes widened in surprise.

"No more than the mainland could!" he snorted. But laughter would not come to his lips, and he remembered a great wave that engulfed everything in its way. Of all his nightmares, that one was the worst, except for the one he could never recall after he woke up.

"You will see how firm our land is under your feet." Raising his glance towards the west, he realized that the red glow had dwindled to a thin line that cleaved sea and sky apart. The first stars littered the dark dome above their heads, and he had to suppress a shiver. "But now you should go to bed."

Ashad did not move at first, but followed meekly when Hannishtart pulled him up and guided him towards the inside of the ship. Even when he couldn´t see "the blue", it still frightened him. It had not been like this when they lived by the harbour at the Middle Havens, not even when they sailed along the coast from Umbar to the Northern post. Only when they lost sight of the shore, and found themselves in the middle of the Great Sea, the boy had suddenly run below deck and refused to come up. The dark and stifling bowels of the ship had made his nausea worse, bringing frequent curses to the lips of sailors and soldiers alike.

The sky was fully starred as Hannishtart emerged on deck once more. Constellations seemed to swim lazily in the sea above, the one that not even Númenorean ships could sail. Their seafarers had, however, learned to read them, and by their position navigate their way through the open sea that frightened the other peoples so much.

_They were all pointing at Númenor now, hidden somewhere on the vanished line of the horizon._

Hannishtart rested his back against the railing, and closed his eyes against the creaking of wood and the splashing of water in his ears.

* * * * *

He woke up to the shouts of the captain and the voices of sailors climbing the mast, and manouevring the hard and crackling sails against the morning wind. His body ached as he opened his eyes and rubbed the haze away from them with the back of his hand. He stood up, leaning over the railing to take in the view.

Sor was before them, the many-towered city set against the red sky of dawn. The Orrostar and the Hyarnustar had engulfed their ship while he slept, and now they stood on the brink of being swallowed by the tighter embrace of the two Arms of the Giant, doorstep of the Island and the largest harbour in the world. Hannishtart looked up, but as much as he stretched the muscles in his neck he was unable to see beyond the knee of the gigantic statue of the Warrior, and the bristling wolf that curled against his left foot, baring its fangs at incoming travellers. To the South, the twin image of the King raised his sceptre above the masts of a timber squadron returning from the Hyarnustar.

"Home, eh?" The indiscreet sailor of the previous evening jumped in front of him, holding a sail. Hannishtart shrugged.

"Your boy is disposing of his breakfast again." He turned back to meet the soldier who had fetched him from Ulfin´s cottage a thousand years ago. "I keep wondering why..."

"I will go", Hannishtart cut him before he could launch into a tirade about how a barbarian should be with the barbarians and not crawling like a mournful spirit on a Númenorean ship. Or before he could insinuate something else about the boy´s parentage.

"There is no need! For once he is fine where he is. They won´t appreciate him getting in the way of their manouevres," he shouted after him. Hannishtart stopped in his tracks for a moment, then continued on his way. All of a sudden, he felt like the boy himself: he wanted to hide.

Last time he had seen Sor, he had been young. He had wanted to see his family, and had drunk himself senseless instead.

_Traitor._

The cold, viscous texture of shame crept down his belly at the thought.

"Ashad!" The boy was sitting in the dark, refusing to look at him in his embarrassment for having vomited again. "We are in Sor. The ship is coming into port now, and we must leave."

Dark, inquiring eyes shot up at him. He nodded, and the boy struggled to his feet.

"Where are we going?", he asked, his bravery returning at the prospect of land under his feet again. Hannishtart tried a smile, that came out more like a grimace.

_If only he knew._

"Pack everything while I talk to the captain" he ordered.

* * * * *

The boy´s dispirited fear aboard the ship was immediately changed into wonder, as soon as the two of them set foot in the harbour. Hannishtart had never seen eyes grow so wide as they jumped from a line of vendors of coloured fabrics to a battalion of soldiers who sang as they marched towards a ship, and from there again towards a troupe of acrobats who had built a pyramid with their flexed bodies. He stopped in his tracks and blinked many times, as if he was trying to take all those sights in but his mind could not process so much at once. Then, drunk from the sounds and the colours, he started turning in circles, bumping into people who cursed when they saw him. Hannishtart had to grab him before he could run to the stalls and cause trouble.

"Stay with me. Sor is not a place to wander."

Ashad looked disappointed, but nodded. He seemed to perceive how tense Hannishtart´s mood was.

_The merchants of Gadir are out for your blood, and so will those of Umbar and Sor._ It had been many years since he had seen Azzibal or any of his associates, but he wondered if they could have been already informed of his arrival by their spies. Sor was the entrance to Númenor, but in the middle of such a crowd nobody would notice a man who suddenly went missing. And, as everybody knew, the merchants controlled the city.

"Are you Hannishtart the soldier?"

He froze, the thread of his thoughts broken by the harsh voice behind his back. Turning towards its souce, he saw a tall man, dressed in a way that reminded him of the Armenelos guard, except that there was no sun emblazoned in his chest, and he wore a dark blue cloak. A group of men, ten, or maybe fifteen, stood behind him, their raiment identical.

The instincts of the warrior heightened by the awareness of his own, dangerous position, Hannishtart´s right hand immediately flew towards the sword hanging from his waist. Ashad hid behind him.

"Who are you?"

The guards also carried swords, but none of them followed his example. The one who had addressed him first, who seemed to be their leader, stared at him gravely.

"Come with us. In the name of the King."

_The King._ The King had been the one to recall him to Númenor. He had also freed his family, or so Pharazôn had written in his letter. And still, how could he know that this wasn´t a trap?

"Prove that the King sent you."

The guard looked around him for a moment, then proceeded to whisper something in a low voice to one of the others. His expression struck Hannishtart as calculating.

Then, the second soldier started rummaging in a pouch, and produced a document. He handed it to Hannishtart.

"Here." Wondering if it could be a ploy to make him lower his guard, then realizing, as if from a distant remembrance of a more civilized life, that they could not attack him in front of so many witnesses, Hannishtart grabbed it. A royal seal, similar to the one he had seen in documents sent to the mainland in official ships, glared at him from the page. He folded it carefully, contemplating his options.

It could still be a trap. Those men had no crests. Whom did they serve? Whom could they be traced back to? He had been ambushed by people who pretended to be carrying the orders of their superiors before.

"Are you coming with us, or not?" the guard asked, with an air of impatience. While he spoke, he drew close to Hannishtart and his voice dropped to a hiss. "See that man in yellow? The one who was watching us a minute ago and now hides behind the white palanquin? We just dissuaded him from coming at you, but there are more. We must be quick."

Hannishtart thought furiously for a moment. People were starting to draw a circle around them, intrigued by their display and trying to hear what they said. Truths or lies, friend or foes; he had to make a decision now. He had barely set foot in the soil of Númenor after thirty years of fighting barbarians in a wild land, and he was already gambling on his life again.

"I will follow you", he finally said. "Lead the way."

A confused Ashad followed him among the disappointed murmurations of the crowd.

* * * * *

The guards were quick to leave the populated area of the harbour, leading them through a maze of deserted streets and dark alleyways. They seemed to have a fixed destination, towards which they persevered in grim silence. Nobody spoke to him, and they only seemed to communicate through wordless glances whenever someone passed by or edged close to them, as if trying to evaluate whether they posed a threat or not. Hannishtart had been placed at the centre of their formation, surrounded by armed men at every side, which made him feel vulnerable and trapped.

Finally, after what seemed like years, they reached a fishing village of the outskirts, and entered a large stable. The leader made a signal, and the others started untying the horses.

"We did not know that the boy was coming," he said to Hannishtart, with something vaguely ressembling an apologetic tone. "We must travel fast. Would you take him with you?"

The soldier dismissed this question with a shrug, then held to this opening at once.

"Where are we going?"

"Rómenna."

"What?"

The guard leader shook his head, and sent a significant look in the direction of the stable master, who was counting coins in their vicinity. He did not seem to have heard their exchange, but still the infuriating man did not seem about to say another word in his presence. In a quick stride, he reached his horse and mounted it.

"Come, Ashad." Hannishtart helped the boy up, torn between frustration and shock. He had imagined that they were going to Armenelos. Wasn´t the King who had summoned him? Rómenna, however, was a small town in the middle of nowhere. Why would they take him to such a place, unless they meant him some ill?

"Who are they?" the boy whispered to him as he climbed to the saddle.

"They are the King of Númenor´s men", he replied, spurring the horse towards the others. Almost immediately the riders surrounded him, adopting the same formation they had kept while they walked. Still, he was determined to claim answers this time, and he almost clashed his mount against another in his forceful attempt to catch up with the leader, who was at the front.

"Why are we going to Rómenna?" he asked, shouting above the clatter of hooves. "And who are you?"

"My name is Adunazer" the man replied, looking over his shoulder, "and I am here to protect you from the machinations of the Merchant Princes of Sor."

"Then why aren´t we going to Armenelos, where the King is?" Hannishtart inquired.

"Taking the road through the Mittalmar now would be madness, without a sizeable escort", was the prompt reply. "In Rómenna, however, you have many friends."

"Friends? What friends?"

"Us. And many others." Somehow, Adunazer looked slightly ruffled as he said this. "The Faithful."

* * * * *

They made their way through the sand-battered road, edging the forest. The Autumn sea was dark and stormy, breaking upon the shore in sizzling bursts of foam in a way that reminded Hannishtart of the Havens, and Ulfin´s white feet the first time he had seen her walking in the beach to gather seaweed.

For the best part of the day after they left Sor, they rode past hundreds of travellers who came to or from Armenelos, peasants who returned to their fields after selling their goods in the city, or rich merchants who sought the calm of their country villas at night. Many of them stood at the side of the road and stared at them as they passed by, and some frowned and muttered words that Hannishtart could not make out in the distance. His escort -for so they had turned out to be- did not look ruffled by this, or seemed to pay much attention, but he could perceive that they never lowered their guard for an instant. When time came for the midday meal, they ate on horseback, not even slowing their pace for the sake of comfort. Ashad looked tired, but after his behaviour on the ship he seemed determined not to complain again.

As the sun sank in the horizon the leader turned away from the main road, which left the coast and stretched across the plain of Mittalmar, and herded the small force through the narrow road which slithered down a cliff towards the bay of Rómenna, between the roots of southern Orrostar and northern Hyarrostar. There were no travellers here, not a single soul except for a man who gathered shellfish from the pools a long distance below.

"Let´s hurry. It will be night soon, and then it will be too dangerous to proceed" Adunazer warned when they stopped for the third time to lead their mounts on foot through a difficult stretch of the road. It had fallen into disrepair, Hannishtart noticed. Even in Middle-earth, one would have to ride into the wildest areas on the edges of civilization to find a road so neglected.

"It might have been better to reach the place by ship", he remarked, helping the boy to climb on the saddle again.

"That would have been too risky. We would not hazard appearing on the docks of a city in broad daylight a second time", was the answer he got.

Hannishtart did not find it satisfying. He was growing restless, and he did not know whether the idea of being surrounded and protected by so-called Faithful made him feel better or worse. He wasn´t much more than a traitor to them, and their behaviour, in spite of their protestations of friendship, was aloof and suspicious.

"Why are you helping me?" he hissed, taken by a sudden fit of impatience. _If only Pharazôn had been in Númenor..._

Adunazer stopped for an instant to stare at him. No emotion showed upon his countenance.

"You are the son of Lord Númendil of Andúnië," he said, with a bow. Then he climbed his horse and spurred it forth, leaving Hannishtart to mull over his words.

He did not need to say it, for Hannishtart to know that he disapproved of him. The choice of words had been telling enough, and the tone in which they had been spoken ratified it. _You are the son of Lord Númendil..._ not "one of us", or "our friend".

_Nothing he shouldn´t have expected._

"Where is Lord Númendil now?" he asked, feeling a small stab in his chest as he spoke the name. His voice, however, came from his lips lower than he had intended, and the sound of the hooves drowned it. Cursing to himself, he followed, with Ashad´s eyes momentarily meeting his in an unspoken question.

It was night when they reached the foot of the cliff, and the city of Rómenna lay in shadow. There were some lights in the street, and here and there a few people came and went on unfinished business, but it was nothing to the boisterous squares of Sor or Armenelos, or even like the camps of the Havens and Umbar and their brothels that never closed. The stone buildings towered somberly over their heads as they made their way among them.

They crossed the centre of the city without stopping, then proceeded towards an area where houses became smaller and gaps between them more frequent. Here, darkness was absolute, and nothing was heard except the murmur of the sea.

"This way", one of the men told Hannishtart, heading towards a street that at some point became a road, leading away from the last signs of habitation and towards a rocky path. Before them, in the distance, there was a light.

As they advanced, the light started growing into the shape of a large house, whose walls towered over the cliff. The riders stopped before a large oak gate, and waited while Adunazer spoke to someone. Then the doors opened, and to Hannishtart´s surprise they were ushered inside a stone courtyard large enough to contain three times as many horses as their party brought.

"Follow me, if you please", Adunazer said, dismounting. Ashad had fallen asleep; his body leaned heavily against Hannishtart´s shoulder as he lowered him from the saddle. When his feet touched the floor, however, he jumped awake and his eyes widened in alert, trying to discern his surroundings from behind the sleepy haze.

"They are our friends", Hannishtart soothed him, before the bustle of armed men under the light of torches could awake unwanted remembrances and send the boy into a panic. Ruefully, he wished he could be as sure himself.

Other people hurried to take care of his horse, as Adunazer signalled for him to follow past the comings and goings of the men towards the main door. Ashad tottered behind.

The house was such as he had not seen in many years, full of large halls and well lit corridors. The walls were made of painted sea-stone, and Hannishtart could see large seashells incrusted in them. All the floors, however, were polished marble, shining dazzlingly white under his feet. Ashad did not say a word, but he looked every inch as tense as he himself felt.

"There." Adunazer stopped in his tracks at a doorstep, and nodded in their direction as if to beckon them in. The moment that his voice came from his lips, reverberating oddly on the walls, Hannishtart became aware, with an unpleasant jolt, of the silence that lay upon the house. There was not a single person walking or talking in any of those halls and corridors. "It would be better if you left the boy with me."

Ashad did not seem happy at this idea, judging by the baleful look that he gave the man. Hannishtart hesitated.

"Wait for me here", he said, but as he turned towards the man to ask the question that burned in his lips, he found that Adunazer had already moved to open the door. The light coming from inside the room was even brighter than the one in the corridor, and it forced him to blink repeated times.

" _Welcome_ ", a soft voice greeted him. It was the strangest voice, different in tone and quality and accent to anything he had ever heard, and still, somehow, it sounded familiar.

A moment later, he realized that it had not spoken in Adûnaic.

As he entered the place, he saw an antechamber before a larger door. A man stood against it, a man with grey eyes that reflected Hannishtart´s own like a twin mirror.

He tried to swallow, but couldn´t. His dizziness augmented, and for a moment his mind started feverishly calculating an escape route back through the corridors, the large oak gate, the riders and the road up the cliff.

" _Father_ ", he muttered, in a language he had forgotten.

" _Welcome back"_ , Númendil pointed at the door, and his ageless features became clouded by a touch of urgency. " _Come .... Someone... see..._ "

Feeling the ghostly touch of a shiver cross his body, he followed.

* * * * *

The bed was close to a large window, from which Hannishtart could hear the Sea crashing against the cliffs of the bay of Rómenna. Above in the sky, the moon floated gently, veiled by tatters of clouds that the wind blew towards Mittalmar. During an interval, which seemed to him to have been frozen in time, it shone brightly upon a woman´s features.

She lay propped against the pillows, like a doll abandoned by a child after playtime. When she heard the door open and then close behind their backs she immediately turned her head in that direction, but her straining eyes did not seem to find what she sought. Númendil hurried towards her and took her hand in his; smooth whiteness pressed against wrinkled, spotted flesh.

Hannishtart´s breath died in his throat, just as the pain of recognition erupted in his chest. He looked at her, like a man who had been lost in a foreign city and suddenly realized that one of the strange houses that shocked him had been the place of his birth. Words he thought of, many words, some of which they would have thought insane, but none could make it past his lips.

_None were in her language._

" _Here...him_ ", Númendil whispered. At this, the eyes that stared blankly at her surroundings seemed to be coloured by a ray of warmth, and the parched lips widened in a smile. He recognized this smile, too, though her face couldn´t be more different from the beautiful woman that he remembered in his dreams.

" _She... waiting... years.... you._ " There seemed to be no accusation in the tone, yet Hannishtart thought he could perceive it in the words he could make out. All this time... all this time he had been gone, and he should have been here... here to see her before she withered... before she _changed._

"Amandil", she called. Her voice was hoarse, shaky. "Amandil."

_Amandil._ It had been his name. Her name for him.

He advanced towards the bedside, as if in a dream, and lay his hand in hers while his father withdrew.

" _Mother_ ", he greeted her. That word he also remembered.

Her face grew closer to his, and suddenly he became aware that she was seeing him. Self-consciously, he remembered his unkempt hair, his unshaved chin, his soldier cloak, his sword. Why had nobody taken it from him? The symbol of the Goddess, cold against his chest.

She beamed.

" _Amandil_." Her hand moved up with great effort, trailing over his chest, his shoulder, his face. He stood still, until it dropped back on her lap.

" _Mother?_ "

His father shook his head, sadly.

* * * * *

" _She … years... and now... life ...end..._ "

His feet left a trail of grime as they walked through the white marble floor. In Armenelos the floors had been black... in the palace, in the temple, swallowing the dirt so it would not show. _Not so here._

Ashad was asleep before a plate of food, which he hadn´t even been able to finish. Adunazer was nowhere to be seen, nor was any of the other men that he had left at the entrance. All that he could hear was the sound of breaking waves and soft footsteps. And that language... that frightening language.

_Amandil._

" _She could not... Armenelos. ...why she... stay here...wait for you. Lord Valandil... Andúnië... now..._ "

"Stop!" Shocked by his sharp outburst, which reverberated through the corridor like the twang of a bowstring, Hannishtart-Amandil stopped in his tracks and pressed a hand against his temple. His voice came out as hoarse as that of the old woman in the bed. "I can´t understand. I can´t understand your language."

The silence he had asked for was thunderous like the howl of a hundred wolves. Suddenly unable to withstand it, he turned around and fled, away from the moonlight, away from the whispers and the breaking waves.


End file.
